


Circus Fever

by WifeyMcWiferson



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst and Humor, Concussed Sam, Garth driving the Impala, Gen, Ghost Sickness, Hurt/Comfort, Prank War, Shower Ambushes, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-27
Updated: 2013-06-27
Packaged: 2017-12-16 07:55:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 35,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/859744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WifeyMcWiferson/pseuds/WifeyMcWiferson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A prank war sets the tone for a hunt in a small Florida town filled with retired carnival workers. As Sam and Dean's antics escalate, a routine salt and burn ends one problem, but kicks off a new one for Sam. As ghost sickness begins its deadly countdown, Sam and Dean rush to find a way to pinpoint the origin of the virus and save Sam before the overbearing clowns can get him! Angst, whump, humor, shower ambushes and more; we've got it all!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Ole' Switch-A-Roo

**Author's Note:**

> This is not any direct relation to my story IN THE FOLD but I can’t guarantee a character or two from that story might not pop over to say hello and take a swat at one of the boys. Hope you enjoy it!

Sam knew that starting a prank war with Dean was a bad idea; they always ended badly for him. Dean always managed to one up him, like the time Sam had offered to do laundry and switched Dean’s favorite jeans with an identical pair, only a few inches shorter in length. He had listened to Dean go on and on about how he must be getting a late growth spurt. Sam had patted himself on the back until Dean had found his other jeans in the trunk and plotted revenge. It had taken months for Sam’s hair to fully recover. He had been biding his time ever since. 

So when he found himself being tempted to formulate another prank, he knew he should have resisted the urge. Instead, he was holed up in the hotel room while Dean was out hustling pool at the bar down the road. Sam looked at the shoebox on the bed and grinned. Dean’s cassette tape collection was the target this time. Sam carefully used the razor blade to lift the label off the last cassette tape. He knew he had to be quick, Dean had already been gone two hours and Sam didn’t want to get caught. He grabbed the glue stick and swiped the back of the old paper label and fixed it to the decoy cassette. He laid the tape back in the box and shoved the whole box back into his duffel; he would have to be sneaky to get it back into the Impala. He grabbed the now-unlabeled cassette tapes that held Dean’s real music collection and tossed them into a shopping bag and shoved them in next to the box. The labels from the decoy tapes got flushed down the toilet, no need to take the chance that Dean would find them and figure out when Sam had done. 

All he had to do now was wait for the open road to call to Dean and his impossibly old music collection. 

Two hours later, Dean stumbled over the slightly raised sidewalk in front of the hotel, the Impala keys held tightly in his grip. He hated to leave her back at the bar, but after hustling pool and buying a few rounds of drinks, he knew he couldn’t drive. He stepped in front of the hotel room door and tried the handle, locked. He slipped a key in the lock, but it wouldn’t turn. He stared at the door handle, his vision slightly blurry; the dim lamp outside the door not helping push away the darkness of the very early morning hours. He groaned when he realized he had put the Impala’s key in the doorknob, he tried to pull the key loose but it was stuck. 

“Sammy!” he called out as he knocked on the door. He glanced at the dark window, only his kid brother would go to bed early on a Friday night. Course, it was like two o’clock in the morning…but hey! Hustling pool was a hard job with a tough schedule and if Sam couldn’t help then he could at least let him in the room. Dean knocked again, louder this time and yelled, “Sam! Let me in!”

Dean was caught off guard as the door in front on him opened, the light flipping on and blinding him. He threw a hand up to protect his sensitive eyes, but not before he got a glimpse at the scrawny man in front of him. 

“This is not your room, dumbass!” the small man said. “You and your…guy…are the next room down!”

Dean listened as the door slammed shut. He sighed and reached for the keys hanging out of the doorknob. As he tried to pull the key free he heard a snicker from his left. He turned and saw Sam leaning against the wall shaking his head and grinning, the light from their room illuminating him. 

“Problems,” Sam asked, unable to keep the grin off his face. 

“No,” Dean lied with a slight whine as he tried harder to pull the keys free. He tried twisting them to no avail. He felt his exhaustion pairing off with his drunkenness and dropped his head against the door; the thump of his head apparently not settling well with the already obnoxious occupant. Sam watched in amazement as the door suddenly jerked open, causing Dean to fall inside of the room, his face frozen in surprise. 

Dean felt clumsy as he was hauled to his feet and shoved out of the room, but not before feeling a fist make contact with his cheekbone. “I said this wasn’t your room,” the man said as Dean stumbled on his feet. Sam stepped up and grabbed Dean, steadying him. He towered over the man, knowing his physical appearance would deter him from doing anything further. The man froze and looked up at Sam, a good fourteen inches taller than him. Sam reached towards the man, making him back up into the room. Sam grabbed the Impala keys and with one swift tug pulled it free from the doorknob. He held them up for the man to see and said, “We’ll be needing these.”

Sam stalked away from the door, his hand firmly clamped on Dean’s collar as he pushed Dean towards their room. He tossed the keys on the table and pushed Dean towards his bed. 

“You need to get some sleep,” Sam said. “Just how drunk are you?”

“Drunk enough that the Impala got left behind, but not so drunk that I can’t feel how much my face hurts now,” Dean whined as he lowered himself to the bed. He tried to lean down to untie his work boots, but his head swam and his fingers were to clumsy to untie the knot. He gave up and dropped back onto the bed, sinking into a dreamless sleep. 

Dean woke the next morning to the sound of the Impala’s engine cutting out. He raised an eyelid and surveyed the room, Sam’s bed was empty. Dean winced as the light from the window harshly burned his eyes; he pulled the covers back over his head and nestled deeper into the rough sheets. Just once, he wished they could stay in a nice hotel…or even a bed and breakfast, one that served pie for breakfast. But they got enough raised eyebrows with their ‘two queens’ bed routine as it was, no need to help ruin their appearance any further. 

As Sam stepped back into the hotel room, he tossed a bag of breakfast sandwiches on the table before setting a cup of coffee on the nightstand nearest Dean. 

“You awake,” Sam asked as he sat down at the table and pulled the laptop out. 

“Mmmmmmm,” Dean mumbled from his fortress of cotton solitude. “No.”

“Rough night,” Sam asked, his voice steeped in disapproval. 

“Let me sleep Sam,” Dean mumbled again. “I’m hung over… stop talking. You want me to come over there and thump you?”

“I got you coffee,” Sam stated as though that were the most simple and prescribed cure. 

“What’s in it,” Dean asked.

“Uh---coffee,” Sam stated. “Why?”

“Might need a little hair of the dog this morning,” Dean said as one of his hands snaked out of the blankets, waving a flask at Sam. 

“Seriously? You want booze for breakfast,” Sam asked in disbelief. Deep down, he was worried; this was becoming a trend for Dean. He knew Dean carried a lot of things around, but hitting the bottle, or flask in this instance, this early was ridiculous. “No. Get up, have some coffee and breakfast, and get in the shower. I’ll look for us a job.”

The flask disappeared back into the blankets followed by a disheartened sigh. Dean pulled the covers free, he knew he wasn’t going to get any more sleep. Not when Sam was getting in his bossy mode. 

Sam watched as Dean’s face came into view, the bruise from neighbor making him look even more rundown and tired. “We don’t need to look for a job,” Dean said as he untangled himself from the bed sheets. “Bobby called last night while I was at the bar. He found us a job.”

“Bobby called you while you were at the bar,” Sam repeated, as he sat back and scrutinized his brother’s face. “Do you even remember what he said about the job?”

He didn’t miss the scowl that crossed Dean’s face. “Yes, Francis, I do,” Dean stated firmly. “I may have been out drinking but I am capable of taking a message.”

“So what was it,” Sam asked. 

Dean smirked and rolled up his left shirt sleeve to reveal actual notes, written in blue ink. “I told you, he called, and I took the message,” Dean stated. He twisted his arm around and squinted at the message. 

“A round of people dying….uhhhh……….,” Dean said as he continued to squint at his arm. “Down in Florida. Looks like heart attacks but isn’t.”

Sam waited a minute before crossing his arms and looking intensely at Dean. “That all,” Sam asked. Something in the way he asked made Dean’s temper flare. 

“Yes, Sam, that’s all,” Dean snarled as he further disentangled himself from the sheets and headed for the shower. “You want their social security numbers? Or the names of their dentists? Bobby said he would call later with more details.” 

Sam sighed as the bathroom door slammed behind Dean. He heard the shower kick on but it didn’t cover up the sounds of Dean retching. Sam shook his head and wondered why Dean was always so determined to be so unforgiving to his body, he wasn’t getting any younger, and certainly his liver wasn’t getting any less saturated. Sam had tried to bring it up a few times, but Dean always shut him down with a comment about Sam watching to many Lifetime movies or needing to eat less salad and more barbeque. 

When Dean stepped out of the bathroom on a puff of steam, he could see the duffel bags packed and at the door. He knew Sam was in a mood again. Probably because Dean had gone out again last night, but it beat sitting around the hotel and watching crappy late night television while Sam huffed around the room and worried about things they had no control over. Or things that Dean controlled. 

Dean grabbed his duffel bag and crammed the last of his clothes inside. He grabbed Sam’s duffel bag and tossed them both into the trunk of the car. He watched as Sam walked across the parking lot from the small office, a little packet in his hand; Dean tossed him the keys before moving to the passenger door. They both slid onto the seat and Sam cranked the engine. Before he changed gears, Sam handed him the small packet, Dean turned it over in his hand. Ibuprofen. A peace offering. One he would take in a heartbeat.

“Thanks man,” he said as he ripped the packet open and dry swallowed the two pills. “Head’s killing me.”

Sam laughed and said, “Yeah, well if I ever get to drive while you’re okay, it’ll be a miracle.”

They rode in silence for the first three hours, Dean occasionally dozing off only to spring awake at the slightest bump in the road, glancing around as though to make sure Sam hadn’t just crashed the car. Sam tried to ignore his brother’s behavior, he knew they had a long drive and Bobby hadn’t even given them the town name yet.

Hours later, Dean woke to the steady movement of the car. It was a familiar feeling, one that had lulled him to sleep on many occasions; one that made him instantly relax and feel as though everything was okay. It was a power house of steel and chrome and leather, but most of all it was home. 

 

He turned to see Sam gazing at the minivan driving in front of them, a strange look on his face. Dean glanced at the minivan, a look of pure horror crossing his face; it was plastered with honor roll stickers and the little sticker family, down to the little two dogs. As Sam pulled the Impala around to pass the minivan, Dean tried to follow his gaze and see what Sam saw. A stroller in the back, teenager slouching in the backseat with his earphones in place, two car seats the middle seat –twins, and the parents talking up front, laughing and smiling. Normal, typical even. Everything Sam had ever wanted rolled up in one hideous chunk of vehicle. 

Dean watched Sam’s expression as they passed the van. Sam shifted uncomfortably when he realized Dean had been watching him. He felt guilty somehow, as though Dean could see his desire for a different life; like he was cheating on the hunter’s life by wishing for something a little more like the Walton’s and less like the Munsters. 

“What Dean,” Sam asked, trying to not sound like he was grinding his teeth as he spoke. 

“What? Nothing,” Dean said innocently. “You look a little bit like someone just kicked your puppy back there.”

Sam’s jaw tightened, he made a point of not taking the bait. 

“You wanna talk about it,” Dean asked suddenly, turning in the seat and looking at Sam. 

“What? No,” Sam said defensively. “And since when did you get all into talking about crap?”

“I don’t, just thought you might to get it off your chest,” Dean said as he shifted in the seat. “No big deal to me, you can keep your white picket fences and Volvo’s to yourself. “

“And why is that such a problem for you,” Sam suddenly snapped, his hands gripped the steering wheel tighter, not noticing how he was pushing the accelerator as his temper climbed. “What is so wrong with me wanting normal? I get you love this life, the crappy food, crappy hotels, the---hustling pool and chasing down waitresses. I don’t, okay? Does that make me such a bad person, really?”

“No it doesn’t Sam,” Dean said with a sigh he pulled the box of cassette tapes out from under the seat. “Just means you’re setting yourself up for disappointment.” 

Sam didn’t say anything as Dean picked through the cassette collection, apparently not noticing anything amiss. Dean picked up a cassette and thrust it into the player. He cranked the volume, expecting to hear Hell’s Bells blast through the speakers. 

Sam paused and waited, watching Dean from the corner of his eye. As the show tune ‘I Feel Pretty’ spilled out of the speakers, he held back a laugh as Dean all but dove for the cassette. He ejected it from the tape deck with the kind of force he usually reserved for exorcisms before chucking it out of the window. 

“Dean! That could have hit another car,” Sam exclaimed as he glanced into the rearview mirror. Dean didn’t say anything as he shoved another tape in, turning the volume down this time. The sweet sounds of ‘The Sun Will Come Out Tomorrow’ swept through the car for a split second the tape was sailing out of the car before coming to a shattering stop on the asphalt. Dean held the cardboard box at arm’s length as though it contained an atomic bomb and took a deep breath before asking, “Anything you want to confess, Sam? You can make this easy on yourself…I can be merciful!”

The look on Dean’s face made Sam burst into laughter, his previous outburst forgotten.

“You so deserved that man,” he said with a look of satisfaction. “You remember when you were putting Nair in my shampoo? Made me think I was losing my hair? Now we’re even.”

“Guess again Sammy boy,” Dean said as he tossed the box into the backseat. “We’re just getting started.”


	2. Here There Be Clowns

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, hope you enjoy it!

Dean glanced at Sam, who had fallen asleep against the passenger side window, slack jawed and snoring away. Dean had gotten Bobby’s text message with the location of the hunt; Dean was trying to keep his grin in check. Gibsonton—a town full of retired carnival workers and offseason performers…and clowns. Dean knew his giddiness was wrong, maybe even a little evil, but he couldn’t help it…Sam had been the one to start another round of pranking, Dean was so going to take advantage of their location. All he had to do was find the motel he had looked up earlier; this was going to be great. 

He cruised into town, which was fairly small, close to fourteen square miles. He headed straight for the small downtown area, which wasn’t that big. The town looked frozen in time, several houses had old rusted carnival equipment and rides on the front lawns. He couldn’t help but turn his head and stare as he pulled past a house with a live elephant standing in the garden, its owner scrubbing it down with a long handled brush and garden hose. He was still shaking his head as he pulled up to the motel. He had looked up the motel on his phone earlier, thank God for data plans. The motel promised to be everything he needed for revenge against Sam. 

He threw it into park and bolted for the small office before Sam woke up. He knew Sam would likely figure it out at some point. There were other hunters that had been closer to Gibsonton but Dean had assured Bobby they would be happy to drive the extra six hours. What was mileage when there was vengeful pranking to be done? Really!

Dean strode into the office, coming to a halt when he closed the door behind him. There were black and white photographs everywhere, some signed and dated, some framed while other were tacked to the walls. The pictures were of circus and carnival workers, some performing while others seemed to be posing for group shots. And clowns, clowns in polka dotted pants, clowns with sad painted faces, clowns! His biggest surprise was the small man behind the counter, a dwarf. Dean tried to check his smile, not wanting to offend the man; but man—was this gonna be great for Sam! 

Dean all but waltzed to the counter and slapped down a credit card. He causally glanced behind the counter and could see the set of stairs that let the man be nearly eye level with him. The man slid the card across the counter before looking at it, “Stanley Pinchot,” the man said as he ran the card. “You the guy who called earlier? Unusual name, no offense. Single? Or double?”

“None taken. Yeah, I did call earlier; had to make sure this was the right motel,” Dean said with a small grin. “Need two queens, three days. Maybe longer, we’ll see.”

“Business here in town,” the man asked casually. Dean glanced at the small nametag the man wore, Stormy McFitzgerald; talk about unusual names. 

“Yeah, something like that. So Stormy, you know anything about the recent deaths here in town,” Dean asked. 

Stormy squared his shoulders and slid the credit card back across the counter to Dean. “No,” he said firmly. “Our community is fairly small, we protect each other; we don’t just swap stories with strangers from out of town.”

“Right,” Dean mumbled apologetically. “My brother and me, we’re just looking into it for an old friend, said he used to stay here back in the day.”

He stood for a second, hoping Stormy would start talking but Stormy gave him a shrug and tossed him the room key. 

Sam woke as the Impala’s trunk slammed shut; he rubbed the sleep from his eyes and looked at the motel in front of him. It was fairly small, only a dozen rooms side by side with an office in the middle. It looked like it hadn’t changed since it had been built; even the paint job was straight from the fifties. He watched as Dean opened the door to their room, duffel bags in hand. Something in his smirk made Sam leery, Dean was up to something. And Sam knew he probably wouldn’t like it. 

Dean tossed the bags on the floor and turned to wait for Sam. He wasn’t going to miss his initial reaction. 

Sam stood from the car and stretched, trying to get a quick glance around that might tell him where they were. Florida, that he knew; it was muggy and he could almost hear the buzz of the mosquitos. He headed for the open door and stepped inside. He instantly froze. 

There were clowns---everywhere. 

The wall paper design and colors were reminiscent of carnival tents, there were clown bed covers which were undoubtedly hiding clown sheets, and even a half life-size clown figurine standing by the door holding a tray for keys and such. There were old black and photos on the walls of performing clowns, with their painted smiles doing a bad job of covering up their deep frowns. Sam could feel his skin beginning to crawl. 

“You have to be kidding me Dean,” Sam sputtered, refusing to take another step into the room. 

“Nope, not kidding, this is our home sweet home until this job is done,” Dean said proudly. “Already paid for three days. Might as well enjoy the local flavor, right?” 

Sam stood still, his arms crossed over his chest. “We’re not staying here,” Sam said stubbornly, his eyes horror filled as he gazed at the waist high clown by the door. 

Dean took in the sight of his sasquatch brother, who was looking more uncomfortable by the minute, and felt his resolve ebbing away. He squared his shoulders and remembered the box of cassettes, show tunes on every one of them even though the labels promised things like Metallica and Creedance. Sam had to pay for his crimes against the Impala, no one played show tunes in her and got to just walk away. 

“Yes, we are,” Dean said again. “Now unpack and get the laptop going, we need to do some research. This is a small community made up of some tight lipped people. Might have a hard time getting anyone to talk to us.”

Sam slowly stepped into the room, trying not to touch anything. Dean walked towards the door, jingling the keys while grinning at his own genius. 

“Wait, where are you going,” Sam asked, seeing Dean heading for the door. 

“I’m starved, be back in few with some dinner,” Dean said before he pulled the door shut behind him. He laughed to himself as he pulled away from the motel. 

Sam was sitting at the small table, scanning emails from Bobby about the job they were supposed to be working, when Dean walked in. He perched the pizza box on top of the crappy television before dropping onto his bed. 

“You find anything yet,” Dean asked around a mouthful of pizza. 

“Well, strangely enough, while this town seems to have a lot of history, there isn’t a lot online. We’re going to need to find information locally. Library, I guess,” Sam said, purposefully not looking at the décor. He was going to burn out his retinas looking at the laptop before he spent any more time staring at the clowns. 

“What about Bobby,” Dean asked. “What information did he get about this job?”

“Uh—Well, according to Bobby’s source, four people have died in the last three weeks. All died in their homes, each one of them died from unusual circumstances,” Sam replied.

“Like what,” Dean asked. “They all die on the toilet while reading Clown Weekly?”

Sam threw Dean his bitch face and went on to explain, “Well, the first was a retired nurse. She apparently died of a complication with her cardiac mediations. She suffered a major heart attack and died at home. Her doctor claimed she was very regimented about her medication and diet, somehow they decided to call it an accident. The second was a carnival worker; he died of a massive heart attack although his doctor claimed he wasn’t taking any cardiac medications. He did have anxiety though, and between his doctor and the medical examiner, they deemed he died of a massive heart attack secondary to a panic attack. According to some, he was an extreme worrier.”

“And the other two,” Dean asked when Sam didn’t continue. 

Sam cleared his throat before looking up at Dean. “They were clowns,” he said before falling silent. 

“And,” Dean asked, enjoying the discomfort on Sam’s face. “You think they deserved it because they wore big shoes and extreme smiles? What’s the deal?”

“They both died in their trailers, both of suicide,” Sam said with a sigh. “They had both written notes claiming to be unhappy as clowns. One even went on to describe his lifelong desire to be an accountant, while the other blamed his career for his lack of intimacy and the source of his loneliness.”

“Wow, depressed clowns, there’s a shocker,” Dean snorted into his beer. “So what’s the connection? A nurse, a carnival worker, and two clowns…Throw in a nun and it sounds like the start of a crappy joke.”

“Yeah, well, let’s just figure out the connection and get out of here,” Sam said as he snagged the pizza box from on top of the television.


	3. Stitch 'n Bitch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for stopping by and reading!

“I can’t believe you Dean,” Sam exclaimed as he walked back into the motel room. “We drove like six hours out of the way to get here! There were other hunters closer!”

Dean didn’t bother to lift an eyelid as he rolled over in his bed. “More like seven hours,” he said as he pulled the covers back over his head. 

“We didn’t need to take this job,” Sam said as he angrily tossed a bag of donuts on the table. “We don’t need to be here.”

Dean rolled back over and smirked at Sam, “You mean here on this job? Or in this clown filled motel room?”

“Both,” Sam snapped as he opened the laptop. Sam sat at the table, steaming over the conversation he had finished in the car with Bobby as he had driven out for breakfast. “Is that why you wanted this job? The clowns?!”

Dean smirked and rolled back over, burrowing into the covers again before muttering, “I’ve waited years for a job in this town, ever since I heard it was full of carnival people. Luck would have it you just picked the wrong time to start a prank war. Payback’s a bitch, Sammy boy. And I am the master.”

Sam sat at the computer, torn between working on finishing the job or hatching a plan for a new prank to get back at Dean. He stared at the lump in the bed that was his brother, his eyes narrowing as he wondered where Dean’s flask was. 

“Are you hung over,” Sam asked suddenly, his tone somewhere between worry and distain. 

“What? No, I’m tired Sam,” Dean said defensively from under the covers. 

“You sure,” Sam asked. “Cause you have yet to get up easily any morning this week. What’s going on with you?”

Sam was taken back as Dean suddenly flung the covers back and headed for the bathroom. Sam didn’t miss the lines under his eyes, or the way he looked exhausted; he certainly didn’t miss the wave of whiskey as Dean trudged to the bathroom. 

“I’m hitting the shower,” Dean said, ignoring Sam’s earlier statement. “Figure out where we’re starting this job and let’s get it done.”

As Sam fumed and worried about his older brother, Dean was indeed hiding in the shower. He hated that he had caught Sam’s attention, but hey—they shared space around the clock. If Dean needed to drown a demon or two in the bottle, he would. If Sam had ever needed to, Dean would have looked the other way—for a little while anyways. Deep down he knew he was lying to himself, but it was his choice. He did the job he was trained to do; look after Sam and hunt down fuglies and save everyone he could. But the fact was, he knew they couldn’t save everyone, and damn it if that wasn’t a good reason to drink every once in a while. Sam dealt with their life by bitching about it, Dean dealt with it the old fashioned way. 

Dean stayed in the shower for longer than usual, the heat and sound of the water soothing to his pounding head. He stared at himself in the mirror for a minute before yanking the door open and immediately jumping into the details about the job. 

“Where we starting,” Dean asked, his tone letting Sam know that their previous conversation was over and done. 

“I think the best way to start would be to split up. You want the medical examiner’s office or the carnival manager,” Sam asked, leaning back in his chair and looking at Dean. The shower had at least washed the stench of booze away, but had done nothing for how tired Dean looked. 

“I’ll take the clowns,” Dean said as he pulled his shirt on. “Don’t really want to wear a suit today anyways.”

They road in silence for the first five minutes before Sam turned towards Dean and asked, “You alright man? You seem pretty exhausted. You up for this?”

“I’m fine Sam,” Dean replied, his brain not even thinking about it, it was his go-to response to anything, his permanent autopilot. “Call me if you get anything. I’ll pick you up once I’m done.”

Dean pulled up to the medical examiner’s office and let Sam out of the car. Dean didn’t wait to see Sam walk into the one story building; he headed right for the carnival manager’s place. It was smaller than Dean expected, but the ostrich seemed to fit right in with the local flare. 

The extremely short, old woman who answered the door surprised him as well. “Uh—Jax Miles,” Dean asked, wondering if he had the wrong address. 

She stepped out onto the porch and crossed her arms over her chest. “What do you want,” she asked. Dean waivered for second, wondering how to break into a community that was so…close knit. 

He took a breath and sighed. “I’m Dean, I’m here to ask you some questions about the clowns that recently died,” he said. He knew he looked somewhat miserable; his exhaustion was only offset by his disappointment of the drive over—no Creedance, no Metallica, absolutely nothing. 

She stared at him for a minute and cleared her throat. “You the one they sent,” she asked, her eyes suddenly glued to her tiny shoes. 

“Sent? What do you mean,” Dean asked, confused. 

“Bobby Singer,” she said. “I’m the one who called him.”

Dean and Jax stared at each other for a few minutes before Dean nodded his head and said, “Yeah, you know Bobby?”

“None of us ‘know’ hunters. We do, however, occasionally have a need for one,” Jax replied. “They didn’t kill themselves. They wouldn’t have.”

Dean motioned to the chairs on the porch, and moved to sit down. She sat down across from him and waited. 

“Why do you think they didn’t kill themselves,” he asked. “Sometimes, people do crazy things.”

“I knew them. I can believe the things in their suicide notes, sure. Clowning was not their dream, they were brought up in this kind of life. Our children don’t really go on to become tax accountants or real estate agents, if you get my drift,” Jax explained. “But they both followed family tradition and did it anyways. They weren’t happy, but they were committed. They wouldn’t have killed themselves.”

“Alright then,” Dean said, running a hand over his face. “Then what do you think happened to them? Any information you can give me might help me figure out the hell is going on around here.”

“You heard about the other deaths, the nurse and the carnival worker,” Jax asked, rather stiffly. 

Dean nodded and waited. 

“The nurse was Betty Sharpe. She was a bit of a….problem for most of us. Performers, that is. She was ancient, she had some very strict beliefs regarding us carnival people,” Jax stated, her face angry. “She was raised in a very religious home and believed most of us are hell bound; being freaks and such, I guess. She always fought us coming back to Gibsonton every year, she wanted us to either stay gone or to be normal and stop the shows.”

“What was her problem with you guys,” Dean asked curiously. 

“Her brother, he went by Conan Rawlings,” Jax stated simply. “He was older than her, by about ten years. He was…different, more to the point, he was one of us. He ran away from home when she was only four, he joined a traveling carnival when he was about fourteen or fifteen. He lived a good life, better with us than back with his family; their father was a minister, had made his son’s life miserable. Something about his appearance being penance from God.”

“So how did Betty end up finding her brother if he ran away from home,” Dean asked, puzzled. 

“The downside of showbiz, especially when you’re nearly eight feet tall and have ears that stand off your head like tea cup saucers, it’s kind of hard to blend in,” Jax explained with a small smile. “He stayed with the carnival for decades, working in one of the last true freak shows in the area. His sister, Betty, found him years ago. Followed him around the country, always trying to make him to change his life. She accused him of exploiting himself and others for a buck. She was a harsh woman. When he retired, she moved here to be near him. He hated it. Some of us believe she actually nagged him to death, if it’s possible.”

“So he’s dead,” Dean asked, a small idea beginning to whirl around him mind. 

“Yep, about six months ago,” Jax replied. 

“Where’s he buried,” Dean asked as he pulled a pen and paper from his jacket pocket. 

“There’s a small cemetery outside of town,” Jax replied as she watched him write down names from their conversation. “You know what’s going on then?”

“Maybe,” Dean replied. “I’m guessing Conan didn’t like his sister much; there’s always a possibility that he stuck around to take a shot at her.”

“What about the other man that died,” Jax asked confused. “Jules Star, the carnival worker.”

“Maybe he had a problem with Conan as well,” Dean guessed. “You know anything about that?”

Jax shook her head and then paused. “Betty was a nurse, retired years ago, but she did occasionally did volunteer work at the hospital. It’s possible she met Jules there, he had panic attacks and went a few times in the last few months.”

Dean sat quietly for a few minutes, trying to sort out the path their vengeful spirit was taking. 

“Alright, well thanks for your help,” Dean said as he stood. 

“You going to do something about this,” Jax asked. 

Dean looked down at the tiny, old woman and said, “Yep, it’s my job.”

As Dean drove away, he realized he was being watched from the other small trailers that surrounded Jax’s trailer. As he drove past, he looked in his rear view mirror and saw people easing out onto their porches while some headed for Jax’s place. ‘Small towns, no privacy,’ Dean thought to himself. 

As Dean pulled up to the medical examiner’s office, he watched Sam walk out of the building, files in hand. “You find anything,” Dean asked as he drove back the motel. 

“Uh—Maybe,” Sam said, distractedly as he thumbed through the files. 

“Well, the carnival manager claims the clowns would have never killed themselves, but we know they did,” Dean stated. “Sounds like nurse Betty’s older brother may have had a bone to pick with her. I think we do a little salt and burn tonight and see what happens.”

“What about the connection to the carnival worker and the clowns,” Sam asked. 

“So he scared the guy into a panic attack and he died of a heart attack. And he convinced the two clowns to kill themselves,” Dean speculated. “Sounds reasonable to me.”

“Sounds reasonable to you,” Sam repeated. “You realize you’re…I don’t know…sympathizing with a dead carnival performer who may have killed four people.”

“Look Sam, I’m just saying it sounds likely enough that I’m suggesting we salt and burn the body, if that’s okay with you,” Dean asked they pulled into the motel parking lot. “Is that okay with you?”

“Fine, its fine, Dean,” Sam said as he shook his head. “You okay? You seem kind of….bitchy.”

“Sammy, if anyone is bitching around here, it’s you,” Dean said as he climbed out of the Impala. “Just because you got your ass handed to you by a motel room full of clowns.”

Sam smirked as he wondered when Dean would find himself being taken down by Sam’s prank. He figured he wouldn’t have to wait long. 

Sam had tossed the suit and gotten dressed in jeans and a shirt, knowing a trip to the cemetery would only end with a pile a dirty laundry anyhow. He was waiting impatiently for Dean, who was looking through his duffel bag. Sam watched as Dean resorting to dumping the contents of the bag onto the bed, clothes going everywhere. Dean grabbed a pair of faded, ripped jeans and smiled. 

“I can’t believe you have a pair of graveyard jeans. It’s ridiculous,” Sam said with a small eye roll. 

“Well Sammy, if I wanted every pair of jeans I owned to be as tattered as yours, I’d do what you do and wear every damn pair to the cemetery,” Dean explained as he pulled the jeans on. Sam watched as Dean hopped on one foot, trying to shove his foot out the end. A frown flitted across Dean’s face and as the hopping increased Dean exclaimed, “Shit!”

Sam burst out laughing as Dean bumped into the nightstand, before bumping into the bed, finally losing his balance entirely and falling onto the floor between the beds, his jeans still not cooperating. 

Sam leaned down and looked at Dean, who was lying on the floor glaring at him while he rubbed his shoulder. Sam couldn’t keep the smile from creeping onto his face as he looked at Dean’s annoyed face. 

“Sam!” Dean yelled as he kicked free of his jeans. He grabbed another pair from the pile and shoved his foot into the jeans, nearly sliding off the bed when again he couldn’t get his foot out the end. He finally pulled them off and began to examine the ends of the jeans. “Dude! You sewed them shut?!”

Sam was too busy laughing to say anything. He wiped a tear from his eye and smirked at Dean. 

Dean was shaking his head as he yanked the dark blue thread loose and finally managed to pull his jeans on. He glared at his pile of laundry, wondering what other surprised awaited him. 

“You done laughing yet,” Dean asked as he pulled his boots on. “We have a clown killer to catch.”

“Sure thing, Dean,” Sam said with a chuckle. “You want your jacket?”

“Sam! If you touched my jacket, I swear---,”Dean grumbled he snatched his jacket off the back of the chair and stormed out of the room. 

Sam glanced around the room; confident he had finally gotten one up on the clown posse. He slammed the door behind him as he headed to the car, missing the burst of cold air that overtook the room. As they pulled away from the motel, neither one of them noticed the figure standing at their window, their face barely visible through the thin curtain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How are you liking it so far? Good, bad, indifferent?


	4. Foot Long Fiasco AKA Sausage Smackdown

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for popping in and reading! I appreciate it.

Sam was annoyed. Again. After they had left the motel to head for the cemetery Dean had swerved off the road at the small shopping center and parked the car. He hadn’t said anything as he had jumped out of the car, keys in hand, and sauntered into the grocery store. Sam had sat in the warm car and waited, wondering what Dean could possibly need from a grocery store. Most of their food came from diners and most everything else they needed came from drug stores and ammo suppliers. He was mentally going through the first aid kit when Dean came out, grocery bag in each hand, a slight twinkle in his eye. Another prank was brewing, Sam just knew it. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, wondering if he was going to lose his hair this time around. God, he hoped not. 

Sam waited while Dean tossed the bags onto the back seat, they didn’t speak as Dean quickly pulled the car back onto the road, fishtailing it slightly as he did. Dean watched Sam out of the corner of his eye, he looked annoyed. Dean smirked slightly. His plan wasn’t a simple prank, it was better. He knew Sam would wuss out on him. Jeez, look at that hair; that was the hair of a wuss brother. 

They drove past small cottages where people were sitting on their porches avoiding the heat of the late afternoon, playing rummy and dominoes. Sam was surprised to see elephants in a few yards, as well as ostriches and carnival equipment. They both turned and looked as they drove past a large Ferris wheel in one yard, moving ever so slightly in the humid air as it pulled against its anchoring. They drove past the city limit sign, the houses suddenly disappearing from view, the sign for the cemetery in the distance. 

“Wow, they really shuffled their dead guys out to nowhere,” Dean commented. “For once, we might not have to wait until dark to get started. What do you think, Sammy?”

Sam grunted his acknowledgement; they both knew Sam wasn’t keen on digging up a grave in the daytime. “I guess, let’s just cruise the cemetery and make sure no one else is around,” Sam said. 

They pulled onto the dirt road that ran through and around the cemetery; large live oak trees covered with Spanish moss provided a large living canopy for the well-kept cemetery. Dean whistled impressively at the sight of some of the ornate headstones, some adorned with engravings of the people themselves, obviously pillars of the carnival and circus communities. Once they were certain that no other living persons were around, Dean parked the car near the back of the cemetery. 

“Any clue where this guy is buried,” Sam asked as he scanned the cemetery. 

“Nah, we’ll just have to look for it. He was buried about six months ago,” Dean stated as he pulled a shovel from the trunk. 

“And we’re sure this is the guy,” Sam asked. 

“Well, he died six months ago. The weird deaths started a month or two ago. He didn’t like his sister, she was the first to die,” Dean explained. “You have someone else you want to nominate for tonight’s hunt? Be my guest.”

“Well, sure he hated his sister, but the other three guys,” Sam said, ignoring Dean’s sarcasm. “Did he have motive to kill them?”

“Maybe,” Dean said with a shrug. “You want to go with me on this and burn this guy or you want to stay another few days in our lovely circus tent of a room while you keep looking?”

“Fine,” Sam exclaimed, shaking his hair out of his eyes. “Let’s just get this over with.”

It took them thirty minutes to find the grave, the headstone remarkably plain compared to those around it. 

“Sister Betty must have cheaper out on the awesome headstone,” Dean said. “What do you bet that was why Conan took her out? I mean, look at some of these! And his looks so plain compared to the rest.”

Sam shrugged as he used his shovel to loosen the dirt on the grave. “Could be, spirits have killed for less.”

They dug for a while, their shirts eventually soaked with sweat. “I hate Florida,” Sam muttered. “Too hot, to humid, to many mosquitos, can’t wait to leave this whole state behind.”

“Well, maybe if you would cut that girly mop of hair, your head wouldn’t be sweating so badly,” Dean replied. “But it wouldn’t be so bad out here if we had music.”

Dean didn’t miss the bitch face that passed over Sam’s face before he said, “You know what would make this thing worse, right now? Some loud and annoying Metallica. Or better yet, some crappy, old Led Zeppelin.”

Dean turned from shoveling dirt and pointed a finger at Sam, “Hey! Nobody talks about them like that, Mister Locks of Love. You wanna get this over with, keep digging! When we’re done here, I’ll drop you off at some pussy community college for some etiquette lessons.”

They dug in silence for another twenty minutes, Dean glaring at Sam when he accidently dumped a shovelful of dirt on Dean’s boots. The dig was far more normal than usual, but their bickering distracted them from the lack of ghostly appearances. 

Dean got to the coffin first. He thumped it with the shovel, it resounded with a solid ‘thud’ as he did.  
“Nice one, going to need the crowbar to pop this baby open,” Dean said to Sam. Dean listened as Sam walked back to the car, the trunk opening with a slight squeak and closing with a very loud thud. 

“Don’t slam it, Sam,” Dean yelled from his position inside the grave. “Gently, gently, she’s a classic! Jeez, no wonder you never get any action.” 

Sam sighed and shook his head as he lowered the crowbar down to Dean. It took a few minutes to crack the seal on the coffin, the air inside stale. Dean pried it open before climbing back out of the grave. 

They stood side by side, looking down on the decayed corpse in the coffin. “Huh, we’ve seen juicier corpses but…I hope we can light him up,” Sam stated. “He looks….not dry.”

“Well, let’s just find some stuff to make it burn then,” Dean said obviously. “It’s a cemetery, not an amusement part. There’s got to be place where old fallen branches and stuff get tossed out of the way.”

“Seriously? You want to build a bonfire on Conan,” Sam asked, a touch of self-righteousness in his voice. 

“Yeah, I do,” Dean said cockily. “You think I won’t? Watch me.”

It took another half hour, but Dean found the grounds keeping brush pile in the edge of the woods and proceeded to carry several arm loads of branches back to the grave. He carelessly tossed them into the open grave before dousing the whole pile in gasoline and salt. 

“Here, get it started,” Dean said to Sam as he tossed him a box of matches. “Be right back.”

Sam didn’t say anything as he struck the match, pausing a second with the lit match held over the grave. He half expected the spirit to appear like they usually did and throw him across the cemetery, but he did have an iron crowbar at his side. Maybe this was one spirit that was just ready to give up the ghost. (Author’s note: I’m sorry for the pun! Couldn’t help myself! Hehehehehe)

Dean watched as Sam paused for a second before he tossed the lit match into the grave. The flames shot high, causing Sam to step back from the heat. Dean smiled devilishly and grabbed the grocery bags from the car; he was ready to see if Sam would play along or wuss out. 

Sam was standing a few steps from the grave, watching the hypnotic flames when Dean suddenly appeared next to him, holding out a cold beer. 

He looked at Dean skeptically and asked, “You want to drink beer over the dead guy we’ve just salted and burned?”

Dean shrugged and said, “Why the hell not?” He took a long swig from his own beer; the blanket he had tossed around the grocery bags had done a surprisingly good job of keeping everything cold. 

Sam looked at Dean and gave him a look of disapproval as he took the beer and twisted the cap off. 

Dean smiled at the fire and said, “I’ve got marshmallows too.”

Sam choked on his beer, coughing into his sleeve while glaring incredulously at Dean. 

“What did you just say,” Sam asked around another cough. 

Dean smirked and nudged the grocery bag at his feet. “I’m starved and I’m not digging the local diner’s food. They don’t believe in pie, apparently.”

Sam shook his head and asked, “You’re serious about this?”

“You’ve never considered roasting marshmallows on a salt and burn before,” Dean asked. “You have no imagination Sam.”

“No, I have creativity, just not the gross kind you have apparently,” Sam exclaimed as he watched Dean start to take stuff out of the grocery bag. “Oh my God, you even brought hot dogs!? Dude! That is so wrong!”

Dean smirked and said, “Dare you.”

“What? No!” Sam said crossing his arms over his chest. 

“Double dog dare you,” Dean said, his smile growing wider.

“No way man,” Sam said. “You have no clue how wrong that is!”

“What I thought,” Dean said with a chuckle as he stuffed everything back into the bag. He had made his point. “Okay, well, since you pussied out, I think we both know who the reigning champion is of the pranks. You wanna just admit it?”

Sam glared at Dean and tossed his empty beer bottle into the flames and grabbed the pack of hot dogs from the bag. 

“You bring anything to roast these on,” Sam asked even as he knew he would regret this whole thing later. 

Ten minutes later, they each had a hot dog on a stick, staring each other down as they held their hot dogs as close to the flames as they dared to get. Dean wouldn’t admit it, but he could smell hair getting singed. He only hoped it was he or Sam’s hair and not the dead guy below the fire. 

Sam was the first to pull his dog from the fire, he slapped it on the bun Dean tossed him and waited until Dean was ready as well. They stood across the fire from each other and paused, each one waiting for the other to take the bite first. 

“Well, you going to eat it or not,” Sam asked determinedly. 

“Hey! I dared you to do it—so do it already,” Dean replied, he watched Sam closely. He didn’t look grossed out and Dean was suddenly worried that Sam might actually beat him at him own game. 

“Yeah, what I thought, you can dare it and dish it, but you can’t take it,” Sam said aloud as he held eye contact with Dean and took a large bite of the hot dog. It didn’t taste any different from one roasted without a dead dude under the fire. He took a second bite and pointed to the hot dog in Dean’s hand before asking, “You going to eat that or what?”

“Yes,” Dean said defensively. “Just waiting to see if you’re going to get sick from it before I do!”

“Not going to get sick Dean,” Sam said as he rolled his eyes and grabbed another beer from the bag. “Besides, this little prank of yours is ridiculous. The man is dead. The hot dogs are technically already cooked. The fire isn’t really going to…I don’t know…marinate the hot dogs in the dead man. Now where are the marshmallows?”

Dean watched as Sam stabbed a handful of marshmallows onto the stick and held them in the fire. Dean was slightly, okay, more than slightly grossed out that Sam had actually eaten the hot dog. And now, he was going to eat the marshmallows, it was enough to churn his stomach. But he did start this after all, his prank, his dare, his big bright idea! He had to step up or he’d never hear the end of it. 

Dean finished off his second beer quickly and bit into the hot dog. He knew it tasted normal, but part of him was worried that the smoky taste was part Conan. He forced himself to take another bite, wondering just how much farther into the fire Sam was going to shove those marshmallows. 

Sam pulled his stick from the fire, the marshmallows were on fire. Sam tried waving them around to put them out and gave up; he finally managed to blow out the small flames still working to burn the sugary puffs. 

Dean watched as Sam popped several of the burnt marshmallows into his mouth before grinning at Dean. “Nothing to it Dean,” Sam said. “Thanks for dinner, man. And about that whole, you being the champion—I think the jury is still out on that one.”

Dean’s face contorted into a look of horrified disgust as Sam leaned down to stuff everything back into the grocery bags. When he was sure Sam wasn’t looking, he chucked the rest of his hot dog into the flames and grabbed a shovel. 

“You wanna toss the stuff back into the car? I’ll start filling the hole back in,” Dean said wanting to make sure Sam wouldn’t see his abandoned hot dog at the bottom of the grave. 

“Sure,” Sam said he gathered the bags up. “You sure you’re not still hungry though?”

Dean looked up at Sam and saw his mischievous grin. “Yeah, real mature Sam,” Dean shot back. 

“Just asking,” Sam replied as he headed for the car. He listened to Dean shoveling dirt behind him, the sound rhythmic except for Dean’s grumbling. Sam felt a cool breeze and looked around the cemetery. The sun was going to be setting soon, the sky a remarkable shade of orange and pink. As he turned back to help Dean, he was suddenly overcome with the feeling that someone was watching him. He glanced around again, his feeling intensifying as he gazed into the distance. 

“Sam! Quit straggling and help me fill this hole in,” Dean said as he continued to shovel. “Want to get back to the room and get a shower! I’ve got dirt in my shoes, my jeans; pretty sure it’s in my hair too.”

“Shhh---,” Sam said quietly as he sidled up to Dean. “There’s something out here besides us.”

“What,” Dean said with a tone of disbelief as he gazed around the cemetery. “Dude, it’s like 7pm on a Tuesday. There is no one else out here; we would have heard them pull up.”

“You don’t know that. They’re sneaky bastards,” Sam said, his gun suddenly drawn. “And they can fit an army into their tiny little cars.”

Dean glanced the gun, a slight knot of concern suddenly forming in his gut. “Who,” Dean asked as he continued to scan the cemetery looking for the threat.

“Clowns,” Sam replied as he flipped off the safety.

“Uh-Sam-there aren’t any clowns out here,” Dean said as he tossed more dirt into the grave. “Now grab a shovel.”

Sam slowly put his gun away and grabbed the other shovel. Dean watched as Sam kept throwing nervous glances over his shoulder as he shoveled the dirt back into the grave; Sam’s sudden paranoid behavior worried Dean. Somehow, this felt vaguely familiar. 

As they drove back into town, Sam kept checking the passenger side mirror, his body tense. 

“Dude, if you don’t quit moving that mirror back and forth it’s going to break off and then I’ll have to kick your ass,” Dean ground out as he pulled back up to their motel. Sam didn’t say anything as Dean moved to pull the bags from the car, he just headed into the motel room without a word. Dean was surprised to find that Sam was already in the shower when he got into the room.

Dean was on the phone with Bobby when the yelling started. 

“Shit! Bobby let me call you back,” Dean stated before he dropped the phone and rushed to the bathroom door. “Sam!”

“Sam! Open the door man,” Dean shouted as he tried to open the door. When the door didn’t open and the yelling started again; Dean thumped on the door and yelled, “You better not be naked Sam! If you’re kidding around, I swear I will fill your laptop with porn!”

Sam continued to yell out, the words hard to make out from the behind the door. Dean moved back from the door and kicked it in; it was a flimsy hollow core motel door and didn’t stand a chance against Dean. Dean rushed into the small bathroom and gazed at the sight before him. 

Sam was standing in the shower; still wearing his jeans, and completely soaked as the shower nozzle continued to spray water every which way. In fact the entire bathroom was soaked. The shower curtain had been torn from its hooks and Sam was currently trying to strangle the life-size clown image on it.

Dean was so surprised he nearly laughed until he saw Sam’s face; it was caught between fear, anger, and pure hatred. 

“Sam? What are you doing,” Dean asked quietly as he stepped into the room. He nearly slipped on the wet tile and grabbed onto the towel bar to steady himself. 

“Told you Dean,” Sam said without looking up, his breathing labored. He continued to twist the shower curtain in his hands, his knuckles white. “The clowns, devious little demons that they are, this one thought he’d get the drop on me in the shower. Hand me my gun, would you?”

“Uh—how about we get you out of the shower, Sam,” Dean said calming, still wanting to laugh but the concern for his brother’s mental wellbeing taking over. “Sam, the clown is just a piece of plastic, not a real clown.”

“What,” Sam asked in disbelief as he looked up at Dean. “It tried to kill me Dean.”

“No Sam, it didn’t,” Dean said firmly as he leaned into the shower and turned off the water. “You need to get out of the shower, now. I need to call Bobby and figure out what’s going on.”

“But--” Sam argued.

“No ‘buts’ Sam! Get out of the tub,” Dean said firmly. “Now! I need to figure this out.”

“If it was you getting killed by the clowns, you would want your gun,” Sam argued as he dropped the shower curtain to the bottom of the bathtub. “And I would let you kill it, cause that’s what we do.”

“If a killer shower curtain clown was after me, I’d just switch rooms,” Dean said, trying to rationalize Sam into getting out of the tub. “But it’s not trying to kill you!”

Sam sighed deeply and started to get out the tub before he started to stomp on the shower curtain. “Did you hear that, Dean?! You heard it, right?!”

“Hear what, Sam,” Dean asked, wondering if Sam had gone crazy or if he himself was just unable to see what Sam insisted was real. Sam was certainly acting like it was real. 

“You didn’t hear that,” Sam asked, his tone suddenly paranoid. His clown stomping slowed as his attention turned toward Dean. “He said you’re with them! You brought me here!”

Dean’ s head spun, trying to keep up with Sam’s ramblings and his sudden change from terrified ass kicking clown killer to paranoid and accusatory. 

“Sam, you know that whatever you’re seeing and hearing is not real, right,” Dean asked as he stepped back from Sam. He wanted to get off the slippery floor before Sam decided to stomp him next. 

Sam stopped stomping and stared at Dean. “Are you sure,” Sam asked, his voice suddenly scared. 

“You can trust me Sam,” Dean said as he held out a hand to Sam. “But I need you to trust me that right now, I know what’s real and what’s not, and I’ll keep you safe. And right now I need you out of the bathroom. I need to call Bobby and figure this out. Okay?”

“Fine,” Sam said with a fearful look. He gave the twisted pile of shower curtain another small kick as he stepped out the bathtub. 

“I’m going to grab you some clothes,” Dean said. “Stay right here, I mean it.”

Dean rushed to grab Sam’s duffel bag and pulled out a pair of sweat pants, a t-shirt, and boxers. He walked back into the bathroom, surprised to see Sam sitting on the edge of the tub, his head in his hands. 

“Sam, you alright there man,” Dean asked he hesitated in the doorway. He didn’t know what was wrong with Sam yet, but he knew he didn’t want to be on the wrong side of his paranoia. 

Sam looked up at him, his eyes tired looking. “What is going on, Dean,” Sam asked. “I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.”

“No clue, but while your being rational, you tell me,” Dean said as he tossed Sam a towel. 

Sam stared at the towel in his hands and said with a sad laugh, “I’m scared.”

“Scared,” Dean repeated. “I get that, the whole killer clown thing aside, but of what?”

“Everything,” Sam said suddenly. “Like what if I slip and break my neck on the wet floor? Or what if we didn’t get the right grave and it’s not over? Or what if, you go out to get dinner and have an accident and you die? Or you keep drinking and hunting like you are now, and end up dead and I could have done something?! Or---“

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, Sammy,” Dean said as he held up a hand to slow Sam down. “I think I get it, when you said you’re scared of everything; you meant everything.”

Sam didn’t say anything in response; he just nodded and looked down at the wet floor. 

“Oh man, Bobby is going to love this,” Dean said with a tired sigh as he reached for his phone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can thank Winjennster for this chapter's title, they were both such good suggestions that I was unable to decide.


	5. Geriatric Taunts and the Shower Ambush

“Bobby, what the hell is going on? You have any ideas,” Dean asked as he held the phone in one hand and tried to mop up the bathroom floor with the other. He could hear Bobby flipping pages; he glanced up at Sam, he was still sitting in the exact center of his bed, his knees drawn up to his chin, determined that something under the bed would get his feet otherwise. If Dean hadn’t been so worried about him, he would have laughed at how Sam looked like an overgrown kid, the slight pout on his face making him look even younger. 

“Well, from what you’ve told me, my first guess would have to be ghost sickness; which is incredible even for you two. It’s somewhat unusual and the fact that you had it once already…never really thought you boys would ever see it again,” Bobby explained over the phone. “You have any idea where he picked it up from?”

“Well, considering I was the one going crazy the last time, maybe you could give me a refresher course,” Dean replied, trying to not sound impatient or sarcastic. 

“It spreads from touch,” Bobby explained. “But it spreads through a specific type of people. Like when you had it, you and the other victims were all a specific type—all bullies and kind of acted like a dick.”

“Thanks for that, Bobby, I appreciate it,” Dean said sarcastically. “So chances are, I’m not going to get it this time, since obviously it went for the ever nice, never a bully, salad eating Sam. Right?”

Bobby chuckled and said, “Bingo. You might be able to pinpoint the original source of the sickness from determining the similarities between Sam and ground zero. Match ‘em up, see who fits the type.”

“And then what? Salt and burn them,” Dean asked as he watched curiously as Sam slowly kicked all the pillows off the bed. 

“Yeah, that’s your best bet and you need to do it quick,” Bobby said. “You know the drill, he’s got twenty-four hours from the time he got it until he drops dead from a terror-induced heart attack. You how about how long he’s had it for?”

“Maybe three hours, tops,” Dean said. “He was getting paranoid in the cemetery.”

“Yeah, about that, paranoia isn’t a sign of ghost sickness, so you might want to consider that a clue from your victim,” Bobby said. “Just something to think about maybe.”

“Bobby, I know you’re busy and stuff but is there any chance you can help me out on this,” Dean asked while trying to not sound helpless. “Sam is off and on paranoid towards me; and scared over nonsense the next, and that is not going to help make this any easier.”

“I would Dean, but I’m a hell of a drive from you and you can’t wait until I get there to get moving,” Bobby said apologetically. “But I may be able to get you some help if you really want it. I’ll make some phone calls.”

“Thanks Bobby,” Dean said before he slipped his phone in his pocket. “Sammy, you doing okay?”

Sam didn’t look up at Dean as he mumbled, “Bobby said it’s bad?”

“Bobby said we can fix it,” Dean said confidently. “You’ve got ghost sickness.”

Sam looked up at Dean, his face riddled with worry. “You had that,” Sam said. 

“Yep,” Dean replied as he tossed the last soaking towel into the tub; so much for a hot shower. 

“You nearly died,” Sam said his voice sounding anxious. “What if I die?” 

“You’re not going to die Sam,” Dean said as he stood beside Sam. “I need you to tell me what you’re hallucinating. I need some clues to figure out who it was that infected you.”

Dean watched as Sam glanced around the room, his eyes constantly moving over the room. “Do you hear that Dean,” Sam whispered. 

“Hear what Sam,” Dean asked, trying to figure out where Sam was looking. 

“The clowns are talking again, say you’re going to kill me cause you can’t save me,” whispered Sam as he glanced fearfully at Dean. “I don’t want to die, Dean.”

Dean sighed and ran a hand over his face, he was exhausted, he still had grave dirt in his hair, and he was starved. Dean dropped on the bed across from Sam’s and said, “You’re not going to die Sam. Snap out of it!”

Sam sat up straight and took a deep breath before saying, “So what do we do?”

Dean looked as Sam and scrutinized him slightly. His ability to be coherent was fluctuating faster than Dean could keep track of; he wanted Sam by his side more than anyone else, but…if he freaked out while they were doing research…or digging up a corpse…or at all, what was he going to do with him. 

“Who did you come in contact with,” Dean asked aloud. “This is our first job in about what…two weeks?”

“Yeah, we were helping Bobby with research before that,” Sam answered as he tried to concentrate on Dean; trying like hell to ignore the large balloon animals floating around the room. 

“So we can rule out any corpses before that,” Dean said. “You touch any dead people yesterday at the medical examiner’s office?”

Sam didn’t answer, causing Dean to lean up on his elbows and look at Sam. Dean held back a frustrated sigh as he watched Sam’s eyes track something not real around the room. “Sam! Focus,” Dean snapped as he sat up straight and smacked Sam’s foot, making Sam look at him. 

“What Dean,” Sam asked as he tried to focus on Dean, which was difficult because Sam was starting to get hungry and he knew that Dean would have to go out and get dinner, and what it he died in a car accident? Or choked on dinner? Or----

“Sam! I swear to God, I will slap you,” Dean said tiredly he watched Sam’s face go from distracted to childishly lip quivering scared. “What the hell Sammy? You okay?”

Sam lunged for him and wrapped his arms around him tightly and tearfully said, “I’m scared Dean! Don’t leave me to go and get dinner!”

Dean tried to pry Sam loose and finally said, “Fine. I’ll order us a pizza and have it delivered. You going to be okay with that?”

Sam nodded and held onto Dean for a few more seconds before slowly loosening his grip and suddenly making a detour around Dean’s bed before making a wild jump onto his own. He immediately settled into the middle of the bed and pulled his knees back up to his chin. He continued to look anxiously around the room. 

Dean continued to watch Sam’s irrational behavior while he ordered the pizza. He tossed his phone on his bed and carefully asked, “I need a shower. You be okay out here for a few minutes by yourself?”

“Sure,” Sam mumbled as he tucked his face into his knees, effectively hiding his face from Dean and the fleet of clowns that were waving at him through the window. 

Dean grabbed his clothes and hurried into the bathroom. He was trying to rinse the final soap suds and dirt from his hair when he heard the bathroom door open slowly; the bathroom went from warm and steamy to frigid in seconds. Dean was instantly on edge. Sam, no matter how terrified he might be, would never violate their sacred bathroom agreement; which stated that unless someone is bleeding or dying or being attacked, they would never intrude upon each other. He slowly peered around the ragged curtain; Sam was standing in the doorway, his fists opening and closing while his expression seemed somewhat vacant. Dean shivered in the cold; Sam must have cranked up the AC in the room. 

“You want to kill me,” Sam stated firmly. He wasn’t asking, he was saying it like he was reading the written truth. 

Dean didn’t say anything as he turned the water off and snaked his arm past the ragged shower curtain to grab a towel. “No, Sam, I don’t. And you know that,” Dean replied as he slowly pulled the shower curtain back. Sam’s paranoia was increasing, the clue now begging to be investigated. 

“I hate what we do,” Sam said as he picked something up from the small table outside of the doorway, bringing Dean’s gun into view, Dean groaned; he couldn’t believe he had been that careless. Dean felt his heart beginning to race, he had to get through to Sam, now. “I hate what I do. I don’t want to do this anymore.”

“Sam, put down my gun,” Dean said as he stepped out of the tub. “You’re going through a little thing right now, I’m going to help you; but I need you to put my gun down.”

“So you can kill me,” Sam asked as he flipped off the safety. “You’re such a good little soldier, aren’t you?! You’ll do it, cause dad told you to.”

“No, I would never do that to you Sammy,” Dean said as he stepped closer to Sam, his eyes flicking from his gun to Sam’s face. “Listen to me, the ghost sickness is making you paranoid and scared. I’m not going to hurt you Sam, no one is. Why do you think that?”

Sam cocked his head to one side and looked through his shaggy hair at Dean. The confusion on his face was obvious, but his grip on the gun was firm. “She told me so,” Sam said, his voice still angry, but Dean could detect a slight tremor of hesitation. 

“She,” Dean asked, confused. “Who is she?”

“She said you were going to kill me. And even after all I’ve done, all I’ve given, I’ll never be happy, cause this life isn’t mine,” Sam spat. “This is your life. Dad’s life. Not mine.”

Dean stepped closer to Sam and slowly held a hand out. “You’re safe Sam. And if you don’t want to hunt anymore, that’s okay,” Dean said, trying to sound convincing. He figured Sam was starting to have serious hallucinations, ones that were obviously pulling on Sam’s resentment towards the hunting life. 

Sam raised the gun, leveling it at Dean. “I have to end this,” Sam said. “She said I have to.”

Dean made a sudden change of tactics. “Holy crap! Did you see that Sammy,” Dean exclaimed loudly as he suddenly pointed behind Sam. He hoped this would work and not make everything worse. 

Sam wanted to turn his head, to see if the clown was behind him, or that old woman again; but he didn’t want to look away from Dean. He gripped the gun again, the slight twitch of his cheek told Dean he was having a hard time processing what was going on; Sam tried to steady his hand as he attempted to glance over his shoulder. 

Dean watched as Sam’s hand began to tremble; Dean shifted his weight forward and waited, hoping he wasn’t appearing too eager. 

“You see it,” Dean asked again, trying to sound fearful. 

Sam turned ever so slightly, trying to glance behind him. It was the opening Dean needed. 

Dean lunged for Sam, trying to make sure to get out of the way of the gun. Sam cried out as Dean slammed into him and pushed him to the floor, Sam’s finger pulling the trigger as they both went down. 

Dean’s ears were still ringing from the shot when he pulled the gun forcefully from Sam’s hand. Sam looked up at him from the floor, his lip quivering as his eyes welled up. 

“Oh come on,” Dean exclaimed with a sigh of exasperation. One second Sam is about to gank him in the shower after a full on ambush, the next he’s about to cry like a four year old. “Sam, you okay?”

Sam sat up from the floor, rubbing his eyes as he said, “What the hell is happening Dean!”

“Can you be more specific, cause we have a lot going on,” Dean exclaimed, wondering if Sam could have already forgotten what he had done. 

“You’re bleeding,” Sam said as he pointed to Dean’s arm.

“What,” Dean asked as he craned his arm around to look at it. “You shot me Sammy. Just great!”

“What!? I shot you,” Sam asked, his hands held up in a sign of peace. “I…I would never do that Dean.”

“Yeah, well, ghost sickness,” Dean said as he grabbed a towel from the floor. “Remember?”

“Right,” Sam replied, his voice heavy with guilt. “I’m sorry Dean. I don’t remember it…”

“Yeah, well, you kept talking about some woman,” Dean explained. “And clowns. But I want to hear about the woman, Sam. She a hallucination or something else?”

“How am I supposed to know Dean,” Sam said as he glanced around the room. “I don’t even realize when I’m being nuts. And it’s probably safe to assume it’s all a hallucination, right?”

“Do you see anything now,” Dean asked as he pulled the towel away from his arm. Looked like a deep graze, might need a stitch or two if he could manage it.

“I see you,” Sam replied. “And I know you’re real. And I know all of our stuff is real, but it’s like there’s other stuff mixed in; stuff in the room that shouldn’t be here.”

“Like what,” Dean asked as he glanced around the room. He had a sudden desire to lock all the weapons back in the trunk. It was late, probably even morning by now, but let the neighbor’s talk. He was going to move everything to the Impala the second he could get Sam to settle down. 

“Like, I know what should be in my duffel bag, but I’m pretty sure it’s sure it’s full of ants. And the poodle and the tightrope walker in the closet, right now, I know they can’t be real, but it’s like deep down I kinda feel like they are,” Sam said. “Because I need to protect us from them.”

“Well, no offense, but right now, I have to protect us from you,” Dean ground out as his arm began to throb. “Stay here and try to get a grip while I go out and get the first aid kit; and while you’re at it, think about the woman who’s appearing.”

Dean walked to the door and yanked it open and came face to face with the pizza delivery guy. They simultaneously looked down, Dean was still wearing only a towel while blood slowly trickled down his arm.

“Dean, who is it,” Sam suddenly called out, his voice scared and panicky. 

“Pizza guy,” Dean replied, trying to locate his wallet on the small table by the door. 

“That’s just a lie,” Sam replied tensely. Dean could hear Sam jump back onto his bed, presumably to save his toes again from the under the bed monster that only Sam could see or give a crap about. 

Dean turned towards Sam and sent a scathing glare at him, and mumbled, “Cool it Sam. Not now, please.”

Dean glanced back over at the delivery guy; he gave Dean a knowing smirk before holding out the receipt. Dean felt his face getting hot; he managed to grab his wallet and handed over a twenty before yanking the pizza box from his hand and slamming the door. 

“What is that,” Sam asked. He eyed the box suspiciously. 

“Dinner, eat it or not,” Dean said as he put the box on the table. “I’ve got to find my pants and get the first aid kit from the trunk.”

“You want me to go and get it,” Sam suddenly asked. He moved to the edge of the bed, obviously leery of actually touching the floor. 

Dean pulled his jeans on and said, “What? And give you the keys and send you out in the dark? No thank you, Sammy. I’ve got to figure who infected you, I don’t have time to run after you in the dark while you steal the car.”

“Fine,” Sam snapped as Dean walked to the door. “I’m not useless you know.”

“I never said you were Sam,” Dean replied as he stepped out of the room. He immediately dug the phone out of his pocket and dialed Bobby. 

“Bobby! Holy Crap, you didn’t tell me it was going to be this bad,” Dean barked into the phone. 

“Well, calm down. You know, you were no peach when you had ghost sickness,” Bobby stated tiredly. He hadn’t been asleep when Dean called, but he was close enough to it with the help of a little whiskey. “What’s he been doing? He any help about who he may have touched?”

“No! Not helping at all. In fact, he shot me,” Dean declared as he proceeded to yank the first aid kit from the trunk. 

“You’re kidding,” Bobby replied. “You let him have a fire arm? You said it yourself, he was acting paranoid! Why would you give him a gun?”

“I didn’t! He ambushed me Bobby,” Dean explained. “In the shower of all places, could have killed me if he hadn’t been easy enough to distract at the absolute last second. The pizza guy should count himself lucky that he survived to deliver another day!”

“How’s his fear holding up,” Bobby asked. 

“He’s scared for sure. And angry, pissy, and homicidal,” Dean replied as he slammed the trunk shut. “He’s like an angry woman, except this time I can’t just buy him a drink to improve his mood.”

“Any luck on who you need to salt and burn,” Bobby asked, suddenly worried that maybe he should have gotten in the car and gone to help them. 

“Well, Sam keeps mentioning some woman, at first I thought it was just another hallucination, but he doesn’t really have any fear of old people. He’s weird that way,” Dean stated as he opened the door to their room and checked on Sam. He was still sitting on his bed, staring contentedly at the television even though it was off. 

“So what are you thinking,” Bobby asked curiously. Damn the whiskey haze that had settled on him. 

“I don’t know for sure. Maybe we’re not dealing with just one spirit. What if he got ghost sickness from one corpse and is being haunted and prodded by another,” Dean explained. “Is that even possible?”

“Never heard of it, but that doesn’t mean anything,” Bobby said with a yawn. 

“So if it is, who do I go after first,” Dean asked. “Cause the old woman had him try to kill me and with the way he was talking about it I wouldn’t be surprised if she talked him into putting it to his own head next. But the ghost sickness will kill him outright.”

“Sounds like you’ve got a lot of digging ahead of you,” Bobby said. “I did find you some help, if you’re desperate.”

“How desperate we talking,” Dean asked, suddenly leery of who in the area Bobby might have gotten ahold of. 

“He’s a hunter, not to many years under his belt, but he’s good. Eager to help whoever he can,” Bobby explained, hoping Dean wouldn’t say no. 

“You’re not about to say who I think you are, are you,” Dean asked with a slight groan. “You can’t be serious Bobby. He drives a fricken station wagon for Pete’s sake!”

“Hey! You wanted help and beggars can’t be choosers. He’s only about an hour away. Maybe he can at least keep Sam out of trouble,” Bobby stated. “Call him or not, your choice. But you’re the one bleeding while your brother’s about to go belly up in the morgue.”

“Fine. I’ll call him,” Dean said with an exasperated sigh. “I’ll call you in the morning and let you know what we find out.”

Dean walked back into the room to find Sam hiding under the bed. He was far too tall to actually get entirely under the bed, his calves and feet were sticking out from under the edge of the bed. Dean kneeled on the floor and looked under the bed. He was instantly blinded. 

“Sam,” Dean yelled out. 

“Sorry,” Sam said as he moved the flashlight. Dean could see that Sam had taken not only the flashlight under the bed, but also the entire pizza. 

“You okay man,” Dean asked, suddenly guilty for being so frustrated with Sam. “Why are you hiding under the bed?”

“It’s safe under here. Remember when I was six,” Sam said. “I told you there was a monster under my bed and you told me that monsters never hide under the bed cause they know we would be expecting them to. That it would be the best place to hide from them, cause they would never be expecting it.”

“Yeah, I do remember that,” Dean replied. He smiled slightly as he looked at Sam. “I have to ask you a question Sam. I need you to focus and try to answer, okay?”

Sam looked at him and nodded. 

“Did you touch anyone at the morgue yesterday afternoon,” Dean asked. 

“Are you going to be mad,” Sam suddenly asked. 

“No Sammy, I’m not mad. I’m not going to get mad either. But I really need you to concentrate,” Dean said plainly. 

“I shook the medical examiner’s hand,” Sam said. “Does that count?”

“Sure, it counts,” Dean said, trying to remain calm. “Did you touch any of the dead people?”

Sam turned a slight shade of green and said, “Yeah, I did.”

“Who,” Dean asked. “Do you remember the name?”

“There were two of them,” Sam replied. “They were both dead. Both had bruises around their necks.”

“Okay, that I can work with,” Dean said. “You want to come out here and try to get some sleep? I have to make a phone call.”

“No. I want to stay here,” Sam replied. 

Dean hung his head and sighed. “Okay, Sammy,” he stated. “I’ll be out here if you need me.”

Dean was about to make the call when Sam said, “Do we have more marshmallows?”

“Yeah, I think so,” Dean replied distractedly as he looked through the grocery bags. He was shoving the half eaten bag under the bed when it hit him, hard. If you could get ghost sickness through touch, surely you could get it from eating food roasted over a burning carcass. He suddenly remembered the smell of burning hair. What if some Conan essence or particles had stuck to the marshmallows? Or the hot dog that Sam had eaten?!

“Crap,” Dean muttered to himself as he dug out his phone. Bobby was going to kill him.


	6. Cirque de Dustbunny

“You are the biggest idjit I have ever met,” Bobby yelled into the phone. “What were you thinking, Dean?”

“It was a dare! He wasn’t supposed to actually do it,” Dean argued. “It sort of just…happened!”

“Well, it’s done. And now we’re got to deal with it before your foolishness kills Sam,” Bobby sputtered angrily into the phone. “The big question is what you’re after now, cause to get rid of ghost sickness, you salt and burn the corpse which you two idjits already did. So, what did you miss? He got a glass eye or something hanging around that didn’t end up in the fire with him?”

“I have no clue Bobby,” Dean said guiltily. 

“Well, his spirit is attached to something around there and you better figure out what,” Bobby snapped. “Or Sam’s going to be the next funeral pyre we’re building. Burn the whole town down to the ground if you have to. Have you called Garth yet?”

“I wanted to call you first. I’ll call him now,” Dean mumbled quietly. Bobby rarely ever yelled at him, even when he deserved it.

“Call me when you know something,” Bobby stated firmly. “And Dean?”

“Yeah, Bobby,” Dean asked with a cringe.

“He’ll be okay, he’s got you looking after him,” Bobby said before he dropped the call.

Dean sighed deeply from the edge of the bed where he was perched. He could still see Sam’s feet sticking out from under the bed, he had been quiet and still for the last thirty minutes and Dean was fairly certain he was asleep. He took a deep breath as he dialed the number Bobby had given him. It rang only once before someone answered the phone. 

“Dean! I’m a few minutes away from your motel, you got room in there for one more,” Garth asked pleasantly. 

“How did—“

“Bobby called me and gave me your location,” Garth explained. “How is Sam holding up? Bet he’s not feeling at his best, huh?”

Dean pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. “No, he’s kinda out of it,” Dean mumbled.

“He seeing any crazy stuff yet,” Garth asked. “I’ve never seen anyone with ghost sickness before now. This is going to be a great hands-on learning experience for me.”

“Yeah, I bet, but to be honest, hands-on might be a bad idea,” Dean said as he saw lights pull up in front of their room. There was a knock on the door seconds later. 

Dean tossed his phone back on the bed and opened the door. Garth was grinning from ear to ear and went in for a bear hug. Dean was taken back as Garth looped his arms around him and patted his shoulder, “It’s going to be okay man. I’m here to help.”

Dean waited until Garth removed his gangly self before moved a step back from the persistently happy hunter. 

“Bobby told me he shot you, you want me to help you remove all the weapons from the room,” Garth asked he looked around the room. 

“I already took all of them out to the trunk. Be the first time in years I haven’t had a hunting knife under my pillow,” Dean said as he ran a hand over his stubbly face. 

“What about your arm,” Garth asked he pointed to the blood smeared gauze. “You want me to take a look?”

“Nah, it should be fine,” Dean said with a shrug. “I cleaned it out already.”

Garth looked at him like he didn’t quite believe him before he swept his arm around the room and asked, “So where is Sam? You got him chained in the tub?”

Dean smiled and pointed to the space between the beds. “He’s been under there for a while,” Dean said. “At least he’s not freaking out.”

“Alright, so, where you want to start,” Garth asked, his face still caught in a smile despite the impending doom that was looming over Sam. 

“Well, we salted and burned one of them already and I actually hope that wasn’t the corpse that gave Sam the ghost sickness cause if it is, I have no clue what random hair piece or denture set the spirit is clinging to,” Dean said with a frustrated sigh. “He did touch at least two dead bodies in the morgue yesterday.”

“Yeah, Bobby called me and gave me the specs on the job already. So there was the original guy, Conan; his nurse sister, Betty; the carnival worker and two suicide clowns,” Garth stated as he counted them off on his hand. 

“Wait! Okay, what if nurse Betty is the old woman Sam’s been seeing,” Dean stated suddenly. “It would make sense, she disliked her sibling, and Sam has been a bit of a dick towards me.”

“What other hallucinations has he been having,” Garth asked he grabbed a pen and paper from the nightstand. 

“He’s been really paranoid; thinks I’m going to kill him,” Dean said. “Crap! The carnival owner, Jax, told me that everyone around here thought nurse Betty nagged Conan to death. What if Conan really is ground zero? Sam is being paranoid, probably like Conan would have been towards his sister.”

“So let’s find out what Conan left lying around, maybe you’re right about the hair piece,” Garth said with a shrug.

“Yeah, but I’m not convinced that Sam’s hallucinating her,” Dean explained. “I think she’s haunting him and putting ideas into his head, which would be easy with him being so nuts right now. What if she was the one who caused the two clowns to kill themselves? It fits.”

“I’m missing something Dean, or you’ve skipped a lot a sleep,” Garth stated as he looked up from the piece of paper he was working on. 

“No Garth, I’ve got a good feeling about this,” Dean answered as he stared at Sam’s enormous feet sticking out from under the bed. “The clowns were following family tradition, but they hated it; like Sam. No one believes they would have killed themselves, so what if nurse Betty goaded them into it?”

“Wow, a ghost serial killer,” Garth said with a small whistle. “That’s something to write in my journal for sure. So, what do we do?”

Dean’s eyes narrowed and he said, “We get them all. The sister, the carnival worker, the clowns, and look into what Conan is hanging onto. We can’t play Russian roulette with this, if we choose wrong, he’ll die.”

“Okay. Sounds like overkill to me—get it, overkill—but if that’s how this has to be done, let’s do it,” Garth said as he enthusiastically punched the air. “What are we going to do with Sam?”

“Dude, that’s why you’re here,” Dean said plainly as he gestured towards Sam. 

“Excuse me Padre, but you can’t really think you’re about to go and dig up two bodies in the cemetery for a salt and burn, on top of the two bodies that are still sitting in the morgue, on top of finding what Conan’s spirit’s still holding onto, all the while being on your own, running on no sleep,” Garth said as he folded his arms over his chest. “I can’t let you do that, it’s just not healthy. You’re already tired and most likely guilt ridden over what you did to Sam—“

Dean sent Garth a scalding look that stopped him mid-sentence. “Okay then, Mr. Perfect, what do you suggest we do,” Dean asked sarcastically.

“We can either split the list and taken them down, or stick together to get it done, which if nurse Betty really is out ghosting people, we might not want to split up,” Garth explained. 

“So then what the hell do we do with Sam,” Dean asked. “We can’t give him a badge, or a gun, or even a shovel. He’s all but useless right now.”

“So we stash him in the backseat,” Garth said. “Besides, I have an appointment at the morgue at 7:30am. Only about two hours from now, so let’s either get some sleep or some coffee.”

“I need some shut eye, can you keep an eye on him by yourself,” Dean asked as he dropped onto the bed. 

“Sure thing Dean, this is why Bobby called me. Feel free to relax,” Garth said with a disarming smile, that only unnerved Dean. “Can I use your laptop in the meantime? I want to do some research on Conan.”

“Knock yourself out,” Dean said as he kicked his boots off.

Sam woke to the smell of old mattress, pizza, and feet. But the smell wasn’t what worried him. It was the dust bunnies. They were mere inches from his face; their little dirty faces smeared with clown paint. His breath hitched in his chest, but he couldn’t move. Something was holding him down. 

“Don’t worry Sam—we’ve got a show for you,” one of the dust bunnies cried out as it rolled up to him like some miniature tumbleweed. Its voice was tiny, and tinny, like it was shouting from great distance. 

Several other dust bunnies appeared, one wearing a big red nose and large flat shoes, another with a top hat and whip, while yet another one looked at him from inside a tiny cannon. 

“I don’t want a show,” he whispered. “I want to go home.”

“You are home Sammy! You’re our newest attraction,” the dust bunny said, a tiny mirror appearing in front of Sam. Sam looked into it, a tiny reflection of himself revealed his face was painted: a large grin that stretched from ear to ear and worst of all, a big, bright shiny red nose. 

“No! No! This can’t be happening,” Sam cried out as he tried to sit up, the thing holding him down making him claustrophobic. “Dean! Dean!! Dean!!!!!!!”

Dean bolted off of his bed, “Sam! You’re okay, you’re alright!”

“Dean! Where are you? Something’s got me,” Sam cried out as he tried to brush the dust bunnies away from him. 

“Sam, you’re under the bed, remember? I’m going to help you out, okay,” Dean said loudly as he grabbed Sam’s legs. 

“Something’s got me,” Sam cried as he began to thrash his legs, sending Dean back against the other bed. 

“Yeah, genius, that was me,” Dean stated before grabbing Sam’s legs and pulling him out from under the bed. 

Once Sam was free from the bed he grabbed Dean and hugged him tightly. “There is a dust bunny circus under my bed. And they wanted me to be clown,” Sam sobbed. 

Dean awkwardly patted Sam’s back, unnerved the see Garth watching them, a warm and goofy grin on his face. 

“Well, they’re not real Sam,” Dean stated firmly. “Remember what we said? Ghost sickness makes you hallucinate.”  
“Yeah, right,” Sam replied as he suddenly took a step back from Dean. He looked over his shoulder and then back to Dean, “I’m really going nuts, I’m hallucinating Garth now.”

“Yeah, Garth is not a hallucination. We needed back up,” Dean explained as he sat back down on the bed. 

Sam leapt back onto his own bed, toes tucked in tightly, and arms crossed. “I’m your back up Dean,” Sam argued childishly. 

“Not this time,” Dean stated. 

“I’m just here to help you guys out Sam,” Garth explained. “Not a big deal, be gone before you know it.”

Sam slowly nodded, his eyes red from exhaustion, his face covered in stubble. “I want this done already,” Sam said as he rubbed his chest.

“You feeling okay, Sammy,” Dean asked, motioning to Sam’s hand. “Any chest pain?”

“Not really pain, just---like butterflies in my chest,” Sam said as he lay back on his bed. 

“What is up with this crazy room,” Garth asked suddenly. “It’s like they dumped a carnival in here for décor.”

“Yeah, don’t remind me,” Sam said as he rubbed his eyes tiredly. 

“So what is the game plan,” Garth asked. “I have the morgue appointment at 7:30am. And after that, I’m open.”

“What exactly are you doing at the morgue anyhow,” Dean asked curiously. 

“Well, Bobby and I did some talking. Those two bodies in the morgue have been there for a while, no one has claimed the bodies, even though they have some distant family. It’s a wild guess, but they probably haven’t been claimed, cause no one has the money to bury them,” Garth explained. “If they stay there much longer, the Medical Examiner can donate their bodies to science.”

“So how do we get them instead,” Dean asked gruffly. 

“That should be the easy part. I’m going in to claim the bodies and have them both delivered first thing to a local funeral home where they can be cremated,” Garth explained. “Be a lot easier to play it by the rules this time than trying to salt and burn them in a morgue. Less heat from the locals too.”

“And they’re going to just let you walk out with two bodies,” Dean asked skeptically.

“Well, no,” Garth replied. “I’m going to ‘represent’ the clowning community who raised funds to cover their cremation costs. I already have it set up with the funeral home. They get cremated at noon. We just have to go pick up the ashes before we leave town.”

“So, you’re about to pay for two cremations,” Dean asked, trying to wrap his head around the situation.

“Well, kind of, Bobby called them earlier and put it on a fake credit card,” Garth said with a guilty shrug. “We do what we have to do, right?”

“Okay. Weird maybe, but I like it,” Dean said as he glanced at Sam who was staring at the television again. “That leaves us with two salt and burns and Conan. That’s my big worry now.”

“Okay, well, after we hit the morgue we can do the salt and burns; who knows, maybe one of those four will be the one and then Sam will be back to normal again,” Garth said. “But do we really need to salt and burn the carnival worker? He’s been buried for like two weeks, there’s no way he got Sam.”  
“No chances Garth, we take no chances,” Dean said. “We do them all.”

“Okay,” Garth said as he sat back down at the table with the laptop. “And did you know, your laptop is full of porn?”

Dean blushed slightly before saying, “That is Sam’s laptop actually.”

“Dean, I’m a little crazy right now,” Sam replied from across the room. “But I’m not going to take responsibility for your porn.”

Garth looked back at Dean, who was now red. 

“He doesn’t know what he’s saying, he’s kinda nuts right now,” Dean said with a small, unconvincing smile. 

“Yeah, I guess I just didn’t think Sam was a Busty Asian Beauties kind of guy,” Garth replied with a knowing smirk.


	7. A Good Day for a Run, Into Traffic

“Sam, put your shoes on, man,” Dean said for the fifth time, pinching the bridge of his nose, his head aching from the lack of sleep and food, coupled with the overabundance of worry and guilt. When this was all over, he was going to drink himself into a long weekend of sleep and B-rated movies at another motel. He was so over the clown thing already. 

He looked over at Sam, realizing he hadn’t moved towards the shoes and socks he was holding out. 

“Sammy, what’s the problem” Dean asked he dangled the large shoes in front of Sam’s face. “Put them on, we’ve got to go.”

“I can’t,” Sam said as he stared at the shoes, his face tense with worry. 

Dean had a sudden desire to slam his own head in the door, repeatedly. “Sam! We have to—“

“I know what we have to do Dean!” Sam yelled; his forehead beading with sweat. “I just…can’t do it.”

Dean and Garth exchanged a long look, before Dean motioned for Garth to follow him outside. Dean closed the door and turned to Garth. “I’m fried, man. You got any ideas,” Dean asked tiredly. 

“Well, we could handcuff him in the bathroom,” Garth offered, his tone more serious than Dean was giving him credit for. 

“And have him suddenly freaking out about being trapped? Or claustrophobic? I’m not really thinking that’s a good idea right now,” Dean said. He looked through the window and watched Sam trying to use the television remote to snag his shoe, which Dean had placed just out of his reach. 

Dean shook his head again, “Not that I really want to have his neurotic ass in my car. But I think we have to take him with us.”

“Okay, well, can you even get him in the car,” Garth asked with a smile. 

“You bet your ass I can,” Dean said as he popped open the Impala’s trunk and dug for his bag. 

Ten minutes later, Sam was perched on the edge of his bed while Garth tied his shoelaces for him; which was taking place only after a five minute argument that Sam was NOT going to tie his own fingers in the laces and loose circulation to his finger, and have to have it amputated. Garth had offered to tie them for Sam when it looked like Dean was going to pistol whip Sam into a coma. Sam was looking up at Dean, who was currently wearing the bitch face of the century. 

“I don’t want any Dean,” Sam said for the second time as he adamantly shook his head back and forth. 

“I don’t care, Sam,” Dean said as he held the flask between them. “Drink up!”

“Dean! I don’t want any,” Sam whined. “What if I get liver disease?! Or liver failure?! We tend to drink too much already, especially you! And what if I need to drive? I can’t be intoxicated. And we can’t have a flask in the car; it’s considered an open container! I don’t want to go either! The morgue—all those dead people? What if I get something worse than ghost sickness? What if—“

“Sam!” Dean snapped. He held up a hand to silence Sam’s escalating rant and hysteria. Dean took a deep breath and glanced towards the bathroom. “Here’s what’s going to happen Sam. I’m going to give you two choices…or three. I’ll let you pick which one we do, okay?”

Sam nodded, his eyes wide from fear. 

“Choice number one: you can stay here, handcuffed in the bathroom, by yourself,” Dean said. 

“Why do I have to be handcuffed,” Sam asked immaturely as his eyes tracked the large baboon that was wearing clown clothes and riding a tricycle across the ceiling. “I didn’t handcuff you when you had ghost sickness!”

“I didn’t shoot you when I had ghost sickness,” Dean snapped. “And this is not a democracy. There is no room for negotiating, Sam. Choice number two: You drink the booze and anything else I deem necessary to make you tolerable and safe enough to be in the car and around us and the general public.”

Sam glared at Dean and asked, “What’s option number three?”

“Choice number three is that I beat you into unconsciousness and have Garth help me to haul your Sasquatch sized self to the car,” Dean stated as he crossed his arms over his chest. “You have one minute to decide.”

Sam looked at Garth and gave him his best puppy dog face. “Garth—“

“Hey! Garth is here to help me save you; he’s not here to save you from me,” Dean said, redirecting Sam towards the clock. “Thirty seconds.”

Sam grabbed the flask from Dean’s hands and twisted it open. Dean and Garth stood side by side until it was finished. Dean reached into his pocket and pulled out a full bottle of whiskey. “All of this too,” Dean said as he held it out. 

“Dean—“

“You shot me, Sam,” Dean said as he waved the bottle in Sam’s face. 

“It was more of a graze,” Sam said with an innocent pout as he took the bottle. 

Once Sam had emptied the bottle, Dean motioned for Sam to head to the car; Garth followed behind him, hoping that Sam wouldn’t get spooked by the outside world and make a run for it. He knew Dean had once run for miles from a small dog when experiencing his own ghost sickness. 

As they pulled away from the motel, Dean glanced in the rearview mirror at Sam. He was adjusting his seatbelt for the fifth time already, although his movements were somewhat clumsy and delayed. Dean smirked to himself; a drunken Sam would be far easier to work with hopefully. 

The early morning drive to the medical examiner’s office was quick, although Sam was plastered to the window and gazing out at the carnival equipment littered throughout the town. He started to hyperventilate when they were forced by a red light to sit next to a large mural of the clown museum. 

“Breathe Sam,” Garth said as he held out a paper bag. 

“Here, forget the bag,” Dean said as he pulled another small bottle from his pocket and held it out to Sam, this time Sam just lunged for it and sucked it down without any argument. 

Dean parked in front of the Medical Examiner’s office and turned to look at Garth. “You got this one, right,” he asked. 

Garth pulled on a ball cap emblazoned with the local clown’s guild logo and said, “Yep, let me just go in and sign for them to be released and shipped to the funeral home. Be back in a few.”

Dean watched as Garth sprinted up the steps and disappeared into the brick building. He turned in the seat to look back at Sam. He was clutching the door handle and staring at Dean, his face worried. 

“Sam, you okay, man,” Dean asked worriedly. He heard the un-click of the seatbelt and instantly knew things were about to hit the fan. “Sam, don’t do it man. I need you to focus, okay?”

Sam had the door open before Dean even managed to remove his own seatbelt. As Dean struggled to get out of the car, he watched how Sam gazed around in confusion. As he wretched the door open it let out its usual loud squeak which was all Sam needed to begin sprinting. Dean ran after him, the Impala abandoned with the doors still hanging open. Dean tried to call out to Sam but he knew nothing was going to get through to him; he was at a dead run, albeit running like a drunken man---and headed right for an intersection. 

“Sam!” Dean yelled as he tried to catch up to him, his footing steady on the rough concrete sidewalk, but Sam had height and fear on his side. He watched as Sam glanced over his shoulder at Dean, taking his eyes off of the road ahead of him. 

Dean watched as everything slowed down, time almost non-existent except for the fact that Sam was still in slow motion and a car was suddenly right in front of him, stopped at the red light. 

Sam hit the car full force and was instantly stopped in his tracks. He fell back from the car and hit the concrete hard, crumpling as he did. 

“Sam!” Dean cried out as he slid to a stop beside Sam. Sam was dazed and as the driver of the car started to get out of their car, Dean just waved them back into their car and motioned for them to leave. The last thing they needed was law enforcement getting involved along with Sam’s ghost sickness and drunken antics.

“Sam, you okay? Anything broken,” Dean asked as he started to check Sam over. He had skinned hands, wrists and elbows; bruised ribs, and a sprained ankle by the looks of things. 

“Don’t touch me!” Sam cried out as he painfully scrambled to get away from Dean. Once Sam was a few feet away from Dean, he looked up at Dean, his face still full of worry and asked with a slight slur, “Are you going to do it now?”

“Do what, Sam,” Dean asked. 

“Kill me,” Sam said as his voice cracked. Dean wrinkled his nose at the heavy smell of whiskey on Sam.

“No, not now, not ever,” Dean said as he hauled Sam up from the sidewalk. “You don’t need to worry about me, okay?”

“I don’t like what I do, Dean,” Sam said as he looked at his skinned up hands. “My hands are bloody.”

“You just ran into car and fell onto pavement,” Dean explained. “You skinned them. I’ll clean them out for you when we get back to the car.”

“No, that’s not what I meant. My hands are bloody,” Sam said sadly. “They’ll never come clean.”

Dean looked at Sam and shook his head. Leave it to ghost sickness to bring out Sam’s emo side and run him through the emotional wringer. Dean was eager to burn whatever spirit is was that had done this to Sam. 

Dean reached for his phone as it began to ring in his pocket. 

“Garth, yeah, Sam needed some air and a good run,” Dean explained sarcastically into the phone. “He’s a little banged up. We’re about two blocks away from you. You stay with the car, we’ll be there in a few minutes.”

“You want me to just come and pick up you two up,” Garth asked hopefully over the phone. “I can drive over.”

“NO! Garth, if you so much as touch my steering wheel, I’ll break both your arms. We’ll be there in a few minutes,” Dean said before he snapped his phone shut and shoved it back in his pocket. 

“Sam, I know you’re having a hard time, but I really need you to let me help you,” Dean said. “Let’s get you back into the car and I will clean your hands up, okay?”

Sam didn’t say anything as Dean held out his arm for support, his right ankle unable to bare weight easily. It was a slow process in which Sam used Dean as a crutch, leaning on Dean heavily as they walked down the street back the way they had come. When they rounded the corner, Dean spotted the funeral home van being loaded with the two dead men; all the while Garth leaning up against the Impala like he owned the damned thing. Dean was not amused. 

Garth waved to them as the van pulled away and moved to help Dean get Sam back into the car. 

“Well,” Dean asked. “Are those two dead guys headed for cremation or what?”

“Yeah,” Garth said as he nodded. “Even got the funeral home director to agree to salt them first.”

“What? Seriously,” Dean said as he looked at Garth in disbelief. “How did you manage that?”

“Told him it’s a clown thing,” Garth said with a shrug. “It’s their job to carry out peoples last wishes. He said that they should be done by noon. It’s a little after 8am now, so you want to move onto the other salt and burns now?”

Dean nodded and popped the trunk open, grabbing the first aid kit. 

“So what happened while I was inside,” Garth asked as he motioned to Sam who was sitting silently in the backseat. 

“He got spooked and made a run for it,” Dean explained. “He ran straight into a car, he’s pretty skinned up and bruised, twisted his ankle as well. At least it should slow him down if he tries it again.”

“Man, that’s just wrong,” Garth said with a cringe. 

“We’ll hit the cemetery in a few,” Dean said as he slid onto the backseat next to Sam. “Sam, give me your hands.”

Sam silently held them out, refusing to look at his hands or at Dean. With carefully measured movements, Dean did his best to remove the dirt from the patches of missing skin on Sam’s hands before smearing them down with antibiotic ointment and wrapping them in gauze. 

“Alright, mummy hands,” Dean said as he moved to the front seat. “We better now?”

When Sam didn’t answer, Dean looked in the backseat and saw that Sam had moved as far from Dean as possible, sitting behind Garth. He was looking down at his hands and breathing shallowly.

“Sam,” Dean said slowly. “What’s going on, man?”

“Make her stop Dean,” Sam mumbled as he raised a hand to his chest. He couldn’t hear Dean’s response; his heartbeat was the only thing he could hear. 

Garth started to dig in his bag for something, obviously a plan brewing. 

“Who,” Dean asked. “There is no one there Sam. She’s not real; whatever she’s saying is not real.”

“Dean, check this out,” Garth said as he held out his EMF reader, it was flashing brightly. “What if he’s not hallucinating her?”

“It’s not conclusive, Garth. Same thing happened when I had ghost sickness,” Dean said as he pulled the Impala away from the curb. “Sam’s setting it off; it doesn’t mean there’s a ghost in the car.”

“Could be though,” Garth said as he handed a small salt shaker over the seat to Sam. 

Dean watched as Sam clutched it and looked wildly across the backseat before he suddenly began to furiously sling the shaker around, salt landing all over the backseat while a few grains peppered Dean’s hair. 

Dean squeezed his eyes closed for a second before taking a deep breath. “Garth, I hold you responsible for vacuuming my car out,” Dean said as he pulled across the city limit and pointed the Impala toward the cemetery. 

Garth shrugged and smiled, “Whether she’s there or not, at least Sam thinks he’s holding her off with his salt shaker.”

Dean smirked as he considered Garth’s point, as long as Sam was not freaking out, Dean would be happy to let him use any condiment selection Garth had in his bag. Ketchup, mustard, whatever; as long it could be cleaned off the upholstery easily. 

As Dean pulled into the cemetery, he pulled his phone from his pocket. “I gotta call Bobby for a minute. I’ll drive us around the cemetery for a few minutes; take a thorough look around, Garth. We need to make sure we’re alone out here before we go digging up any bodies in broad daylight,” Dean said as he dialed up Bobby. It rang twice before Bobby answered. 

“You figure it out yet,” Bobby asked over the phone. Dean could hear papers being shuffled around as Bobby kept at his own work.

“Working on it Bobby,” Dean said with a sigh. “Garth has got the two clowns headed for cremation, they should be burned by noon.”

“So that leaves you with the sister and the carnival worker, right?” Bobby asked. 

“Yeah, and possibly Conan but we still have to figure out what his spirit is holding onto, and if he even is,” Dean said as he pulled the car around to the back of the cemetery.   
“Is Sam exhibiting any clues that might help you figure out which corpse gave him the ghost sickness,” Bobby asked. 

“He’s still being paranoid; thinks I’m going to kill him. He also keeps saying he hates what he does, you know, the hunting and everything; says his hands are bloody,” Dean said as he glanced in the rearview mirror at Sam. He was just sitting there, his forehead against the window, his eyes closed. If it hadn’t been for the somewhat rapid breathing, Dean might have mistaken him for being asleep. 

“Like I said, paranoia is one of your clues. Sounds like the self-loathing might be as well. Does he have any physical signs; bruises or scratches or anything like that?” Bobby asked.

“Not that I’ve noticed,” Dean said as he squinted at Sam in the mirror. Maybe he missed something. “Course, it’s going to be hard to tell now since he got kind of banged up this morning.”

“What happened,” Bobby asked with a sigh. “You didn’t beat him up, did you? You know he can’t help himself right now.”

“No! I didn’t beat him up,” Dean snapped. “Not that he didn’t deserve it, but no. He took off and the only thing that stopped him was running into a car.”

“Jesus! You boys never do anything easy, do you?” Bobby said with a wince. “I thought you were going to leave him with Garth at the motel.”

“Sam didn’t want to stay at the hotel and I don’t really trust him right now. Garth and I are going to salt and burn the sister and carnival worker now, hopefully Sam will stay put in the car,” Dean stated. 

“So what’s the plan if indeed it was Conan that infected him,” Bobby asked. “You got a plan for that yet?”

“Not really,” Dean admitted. “That’s why we’re hoping that taking out all the other possibilities might at least narrow the field a bit. And Sam is still seeing or hallucinating that woman, so I am fairly certain she’s haunting him.”

“She was buried weeks ago Dean,” Bobby said. “Sam never got anywhere near her.”

“Yeah, but he did eat a hotdog coated with her brother’s ashes,” Dean mumbled. “Maybe she just doesn’t have a good sense of humor?”

“Or maybe she doesn’t care for jackasses messing with her brother’s corpse,” Bobby retorted. “I see your point, might as well salt and burn her then just to cover all the bases.”

“That’s the plan,” Dean said with a yawn.

“Let me know what happens and if the sister shows,” Bobby replied. “And take a good look at Sam; he’s your best clue.”

“Sure thing Bobby,” Dean said before he shoved his phone in his pocket.


	8. Shovelful of Whiskey, Car Full of Clowns

“So, what’s Bobby’s suggestion,” Sam asked from the backseat. 

Dean shifted to have a better look at Sam, he seemed more lucid now than before but he had his hand placed firmly on his chest, a slight grimace on his face.

“He thinks the salt and burns are the way to go,” Dean replied as he opened the Impala door and climbed out. “But he did have a good suggestion.” 

“What does he want us to do,” Garth asked he walked around the car to the trunk. Dean tossed Garth the keys and motioned to the trunk. 

“Garth, grab the shovels and salt, would you,” Dean stated as he opened the rear door of the car and motioned for Sam to get out. “He’s saying we need to check Sam over and look for physical clues. Now Sam, you read the clown files. Do you remember how they committed suicide?”

“Um---they both hung themselves in their trailers,” Sam said as he glanced distractedly around the cemetery. “What if we get caught out here? We could go to jail!”

“Okay, well, let’s check out Bobby’s theory,” Dean replied as he moved towards Sam. “And Sam, we’re not going to get caught.”

Sam took a step back towards the car, his arms up a defensive stance and shook his head, his eyes glued to Dean’s shoes.

Dean sighed and held up his hands. “I’m not going to kill you, Sam.”

“I know that---well, a big part of me knows that but part of me thinks you might,” Sam said. “So, no offense man, but maybe----Garth?”

“Okay, if you’re sure,” Garth said quietly as he moved between the two brothers. He moved towards Sam, slowing his movements when he saw Sam flinch. As Garth began to look for clues, Dean moved to the trunk and began to look for the last bottle he had stashed there. Dean sighed deeply and pulled the bottle free from its hiding spot under the bag of salt. Sam looked incredulously at him and shook his head.   
Garth pulled at Sam’s collar, Sam caught between a snarl and a fearful whimper. Sam kept his eyes closed, in order to keep from staring at the clown makeup that was blossoming on Garth’s face.

“Up to you Sam, but that ankle’s going to be hurting pretty badly by the time the day ends,” Dean said as he took a swig. “And we’re out of the good meds.” He held the bottle out to Sam and motioned for him to take it. “It’s not going to hurt you, Sammy.”

Sam reached for the bottle, wincing at the bitterness; he shook his head and rubbed his burning eyes as he pulled in another mouthful of the crappy whiskey Dean had bought. A flicker of cool air made Sam jump, his gauze covered hands losing their grip on the glass bottle. As he watched the last of the whiskey drain from the bottle into the grass, he glanced up at Dean, who looked far from okay with using perfectly good bottle shelf whiskey as weed killer. Sam guiltily handed the now empty bottle to Dean.

“Nothing yet, no bruises or signs of strangulation,” Garth said as he loosed his hold on Sam and backed away. 

“Doesn’t mean it’s not one of the clowns,” Dean stated firmly as he tossed the empty bottle into the trunk. “This is a real crap shoot. We can’t be certain of any of it. Let’s just get digging for the sister and carnival worker.”

Dean and Garth grabbed their shovels, gasoline, and salt before turning back to Sam.

“You wanna stay in the car,” Dean asked. “We can take care of this.”

Sam shook his head and ran a hand through his hair. “I can’t…there’s no room for me. There are about twenty clowns in the car right now,” Sam said with a cringe as he glanced over his shoulder into the back window, there were several clowns leering at him from the window, their bright smiles only accentuating their sharpened teeth. “I don’t want to have to share with them.”

Dean grimaced at Sam’s hallucination and motioned for Sam and Garth to follow him. The three men trudged slowly through the quiet cemetery, the morning air becoming humid as the sound of insects and rustling palmetto leaves began to rise from the distance. Sam stumbled several times, from the sore swollen ankle and the booze; he tried to keep upright and finally settled for walking with a hand on Garth’s shoulder to steady himself. 

Garth pointed the way to the first grave, the carnival worker. It was a fairly plain headstone, aside from the name and dates, there was nothing to adorn the grey slab of stone. Dean was the first to break ground; within minutes Garth and Dean were swiftly working side by side. Sam stood to the side, fidgeting non-stop with the gauze on his hands. He felt useless watching them dig, he didn’t know what to do with himself and was constantly shifting from one foot to the other while glancing around the cemetery. 

“Sam! Do you have to pee or something?!” Dean snapped. “Jeez, sit your ass down. Do some yoga or other of that other girly crap I see you watching on television and settle down. Your fidgeting is making me nervous.” 

Garth glanced at Sam as he continued to dig; he was starting to sweat more than Garth and Dean, and he was simply standing. Sam’s breathing became shallow as he suddenly whirled around and pointed across the cemetery. 

“Dean,” Sam whispered breathlessly as he dropped into a kneeling position and crawled behind the nearest headstone. “We have to get out of here.”

“No, we don’t,” Dean stated firmly as he continued to dig. “There’s nothing there, Sam. Stay with us, man.”

“I can see them,” Sam insisted as he peeked over the top of the headstone. “They’re everywhere. They’re setting up a huge tent! Dancing bears, clowns, that crazy poodle on the ball---Dean, they have a cannon. I bet there’s a clown inside. Give me a shovel---we have to hold our ground!”

Dean didn’t bother to respond. He kept shoveling a fast as he could, hoping that they had the right grave; the graze on his arm was bleeding again, a small red blotch marring the gauze he had taped over it. Garth hit the coffin first and motioned for Dean to get out of the hole they had dug. Dean hoisted himself out of the ground and headed for Sam, who was leaning against the headstone, sweating profusely and clutching his chest. He kept glancing over the headstone, his eyes tracking things only he could see. 

Dean kneeled next to his brother and forced Sam to look up at him. “You with me,” Dean asked. “The only people out here are you, me, and Garth. Everyone else is just your imagination. Okay?”

“What about her,” Sam asked as he glanced over Dean’s shoulder, his body going rigid from fear.   
Dean glanced over his shoulder, seeing nothing. He waved his hand around trying to feel for a cool spot. It was just as humid as the rest of the morning had been. 

“I’m not seeing her,” Dean stated. “You sure she’s there and not just a hallucination?”

“I can see her,” Sam said angrily. His voiced dropped to a whisper and he said, “She told me I’ll never be happy. That even after I do everything you and Dad want me to, I’ll never be happy and….I’ll die alone.”

Dean shifted closer to Sam and said, “She sounds like a royal bitch. Where is she now?”

Sam pointed with his gauze covered hand. “She’s watching Garth. She’s going to kill us all.”

Dean turned and watched as Garth flicked the lighter into the grave, flames jumped high as the gasoline ignited. 

Garth glanced over at Sam and Dean and shrugged, “What?”

“Nothing, man,” Dean said as he stood and glanced around the cemetery uneasily. If Betty was indeed a vengeful, suicide inducing spirit, she wasn’t going to go down without a fight. Dean glanced down at Sam, his eyes were screwed shut and he was whispering something. Dean crouched down to listen. “You’re not real. You’re not real. You’ve not real. You’re not real. You can’t be real,” Sam whispered over and over. 

“Dammit,” Dean said as he turned and grabbed his shovel. “Where the hell is the other grave we need?”

“Um—,”Garth said as he glanced around. “I have no clue. It should stand out a little; it’s fairly new and should have some religious icon of some kind.”

Dean glanced down at Sam once more before taking off at slow sprint through the cemetery, glancing this way and that through the collection of headstones. Garth continued to swiftly shovel dirt back into the open grave all the while keeping an eye on Sam’s shaking form. He glanced at his watch; they still had hours before Sam’s time was up; although Sam’s condition was escalating to the point where Garth didn’t think he would make it ‘til the mark. 

He glanced around the cemetery and spotted Dean still on the move, looking desperately for Betty’s grave. He grabbed his shovel and turned to Sam. “Sam, we need to move, okay? We need to get help Dean,” Garth said. 

“I want to leave,” Sam said as he suddenly lurched to his feet. “I changed my mind; want to take option number one---no, option number three---there are dead people everywhere here. Where is Dean? Dean! DEAN!!! ”

“Dean is right over there,” Garth said as he pointed across the cemetery. “Let’s take it nice and slow, okay? Remember, we want to keep your heart rate down so your heart doesn’t just explode.”

He reached for Sam but it was too late. 

“Dean! My heart is going exploding!” Sam cried out as he took off running; zigzagging between the headstones like a crazed, drunken marathon runner. He might have made it to Dean, if he hadn’t made a sudden course correction and tried to jump over a headstone that was nearly half his height. 

Dean turned just in time to see Sam leaping through the air, his face completely terrified. Garth and Dean watched as Sam landed and tumbled clumsily into a headstone. 

“Sam!” Dean called out as he moved to his brother. He couldn’t help but shake his head, there was no way he had been this difficult when he had endured ghost sickness. He suddenly envisioned trying to tell all of this to Sam later, while Sam just shook his head and denied everything. Well, hell if he wasn’t going to make Garth to write a written statement; no way was he letting Sam off the hook for all this crap. 

Sam didn’t respond, which made Dean move faster. Dean and Garth descended onto Sam at the same time. He was huddled behind the headstone, clutching his salt shaker and shaking, his eyes slowly flicking this way and that. 

Dean held a hand up to Garth, a warning to move slowly. “Sam, you okay man? That was quite the daredevil sprint you had going on there,” Dean said as he kneeled down. As he got closer, he noticed the blood behind Sam’s ear. He gingerly touched Sam’s head, his hand came away bloody. The lump was unmistakable, as was the somewhat vacant look Sam had. 

“SONOFABITCH!” Dean yelled as he moved away from Sam. He ran a hand through his hair and took a deep breath. “This just gets better and better. I’m really regretting not just handcuffing him to the sink.”

Garth looked from Dean’s exhausted, angry face to Sam’s vacant yet terrified one. He pulled an engraved flask from his own pocket and handed it to Dean without a word. 

“I’ll get him cleaned up,” Garth said as he pulled Sam to his feet. “Kit in the trunk?”

“Yeah, thanks man,” Dean said as he tossed Garth the keys. He sighed and moved back to his shovel. “I’ll get back to nurse Betty.”

Garth slowly maneuvered Sam through the cemetery, letting him sit down on headstones twice when he became unsteady, the second time ended in Sam vomiting violently into some dead dude’s floral arrangement. Winchester luck, Garth supposed. 

Dean was just striking ground when he heard Garth pop the trunk. He watched as Sam leaned against the door and held his head in his bandaged hands. Not for the first time, guilt overtook Dean. This was his fault; he had dared Sam into eating the food that may or may not have gotten Sam sick. He was the one that had chosen the carnival manager over a trip to the morgue. He was why Sam was currently suffering from ghost sickness, bruises and scrapes, hallucinations and paranoia, and now a goddamn concussion. 

Dean was about two foot down in digging when a cool breeze passed him. He took a minute to enjoy the cool air; his shirt clinging to him from sweat. The cool air vanished as quickly as it had appeared; Dean’s eyes flew open and he scrambled out of the hole. 

“Garth! Get Sam in the car,” Dean shouted as he began to run across the cemetery. 

Garth was just tossing the first aid kit back in the trunk when he was forcefully thrown to the ground. He looked up to see Sam standing at the trunk, a manic grin on his face. Garth began to crawl backwards away from Sam when he saw Sam reach into the trunk, his 9mm suddenly coming into view. 

Dean watched in horror as Sam pulled his favorite 9mm from the trunk. Dean didn’t even slow down. He just sped up and leapt over a headstone before veering out of sight. 

Sam turned to Garth and said, “You’re not going to get me. You can judge me, you can hate me, but I’ve done my duty. I’m done.”

“Sam, please man, put the gun down,” Garth said as his escape was suddenly blocked by a headstone. He watched as Sam raised the gun at him; terror filling him before a burst of freezing cold air engulfed them. He looked up at Sam, his breath was coming out in little puffs of cool air. 

Sam suddenly turned away from Garth and he laughed hysterically. He brought the gun to his own head and chuckled, “She’s right. It’ll all be over soon. All I have to do is pull the trigger.”

Garth scrambled to his feet and moved towards Sam, his own fear suddenly forgotten. He was nearly to Sam when Dean suddenly appeared and tackled Sam to the ground. Sam struggled and yelled out, kicking and trying to knock Dean loose. Dean straddled Sam and cocked his arm back, his own face in an apologetic grimace . 

“Sorry Sammy,” Dean said as his fist made contact with Sam’s jaw. Garth watched as Sam immediately went limp on the ground. 

Dean got to his feet and looked down at Sam, wiping away the blood that was trickling from his lip. 

Dean moved to the open trunk and grabbed a small canvas bag, bringing a set of handcuffs into view. 

“Garth, help me would you,” Dean said as he rolled Sam onto his stomach. He grabbed Sam’s wrists and pulled his arms behind his back, the handcuffs clicking tightly in place. Garth pulled the rear door open and they managed to half drag, half carry Sam onto the backseat, laying him on his stomach. 

Dean slammed the door shut after he lowered the windows and headed back for the trunk. Garth stood to the side, his face guilt ridden as he looked at Sam through the open window. 

“Don’t Garth,” Dean warned. “Not a word.”

“He would have killed himself,” Garth said worriedly. “He would----“

“Well, he didn’t, and sister Betty is going down,” Dean snapped as he shoved a large bag of rock salt in Garth’s arms. “We’re going to get that bitch.”

Garth laid down a thick salt circle around the car before following Dean across the cemetery. As they got closer to the open grave, the air grew cooler. Dean didn’t even hesitate as he thrust the shovel into the crumbling dirt. Garth kept watch, a salt round in the barrel, his finger on the trigger. 

Dean angrily and forcefully dug the grave, not slowing or stopping until he heard the clunk of the shovel hitting the coffin. He glanced around, Betty still hadn’t shown up. He was starting to get pissed about it too; he wanted to send a few rounds of rock salt through her meddling ghost ass before he tossed a lighter onto her bones. 

He tossed the shovel up to Garth and said, “Dude, hand me down the crowbar.”

Garth didn’t even look down as he handed the crowbar down to Dean. The first hit from the crowbar got the result Dean had been looking for. The sound of a 12 gauge going off right over his head got his attention; a small devious smile crept on Dean’s face. 

“Yeah, take that you fugly old bitch!” Dean yelled from the grave as he swung the crowbar again, this time it splintered the wood and locked tight in the wood. He used his weight to crack the lid and pry it open. The second time the 12 gauge went off, a handful of dirt fell back in the grave, a split second before Garth tumbled in on top of Dean. 

“Garth,” Dean yelled from his position under Garth. “You okay, man?”

Garth moved to one end of the grave, his grip on the stock firm as he pumped another round into the chamber. “She’s quite the lady,” Garth said with a grimace. “I bet she was a frisky one when she was alive, cause she’s a real peach now!”

“I bet,” Dean said as he raised the crowbar over his head once again to break away more of the coffin to reveal the corpse. He gagged on the smell, which seems to be boiling out of the coffin. As the wood broke away, Dean felt himself getting pulled away from the corpse, away from the coffin, and out of the hole in the ground. He was shocked when he felt his feet leave the ground; he choked back a sudden taste of bile. He hated flying, even if only a few feet from the ground; and he hated falling almost as bad. 

“Garth! Shoot her,” Dean tried to shouted as his arm twisted in a familiar and painful way. A few more centimeters and it would be dislocated and useless, leaving him unable to finish the job without having to endure excruciating pain and possible permanent damage. 

“I can’t! You’re in the way,” Garth yelled as he stood in the grave, trying to train the gun on the faint apparition that was using Dean as a literal human shield. 

“I don’t care how you do it,” Dean shouted back. “Shoot the bitch!”

Garth scrambled from the grave, accidently knocking the old metal gas can into the grave. 

“What are you doing,” Dean cried out in pain as ghost Betty yanked his arm another centimeter. Dean was higher now, a good eight feet from the ground. “I said shoot her!”

“Keep her distracted,” Garth yelled casually as he grabbed the container of salt, twisting the top off before pouring it into the grave. “I got this!”

“Distract her? Dude, she’s about to rip me in half! Hurry it up,” Dean yelled out as Betty turned and grabbed his jaw, forcing him to look in her hazy, reflective eyes. 

“You’re just like him,” Betty said, the words coming out of her mouth not quite keeping up with the movements of her mouth. The sight and sound of it cut through Dean, an icy chill creeping into his arm and jaw where she had a firm hold of him. “You’re just a sad man, going down a sad path through a sad life. You don’t deserve to live. Why not just kill yourself?”

“Go to hell, bitch,” Dean spat through gritted teeth. Her fingers were so tight on his jaw; he could feel the bruises blossoming across his face. “You can’t have me. Or him.”

Betty smiled cruelly and Dean felt his left arm slip from its socket, the sensation sending fire down the left side of his body, his fingers slowing going numb as his arm dangled uselessly at his side; Dean couldn’t keep the cry of pain from slipping from his mouth.

“Garth!” Dean cried out as he felt her tighten her hold on his other arm. “Shoot her! ---Or me! Just do something already!”

“Um---Dean, I need a lighter!” Garth shouted as he looked up at Dean, his feet dangling about nine feet from the ground as Betty held him by his right arm and jaw. Garth could see the awkward angle of Dean’s left arm and knew it was dislocated. His gut churned at the thought of having to pull it back into place, Dean was going to need more whiskey and Garth was going to need a running start to get away from him once it was done. 

“Seriously? I am dying up here and you need a LIGHTER,” Dean yelled out.

“Got any matches on you?” Garth asked he dug through his pockets. 

“Garth! I am GOING TO KILL YOU,” Dean yelled as Betty sneered at him, his jaw beginning to feel like it was cracking from her hold. 

“Hold on, I got an idea,” Garth yelled as he grabbed the 12 gauge from the ground. “Brace yourself for a quick landing!”

Garth aimed at the metal gas can and backed as far away from the grave as he could without losing sight of the can. He pumped another round into the chamber, the sound of it catching Dean’s ears.

“No!! Garth, don’t---“

Garth didn’t hesitate as he pulled the trigger. The metal can exploded as the gas ignited and flames leapt from the grave, a piece of metal shrapnel flying right past Dean. Dean looked at Betty and watched as the ghostly flames engulfed her, he felt the heat lap against his skin before it moved to Betty. He watched as she suddenly disappeared in a burst of cinders; instantly he felt the ground rushing up at him. 

Garth heard Dean hit the ground, a painful yell cutting through the air that ended in a loud series of groans and curses. Garth rushed to Dean, who was lying on his side, eyes clamped shut as he clutched his left shoulder. He hissed in pain as Garth rolled him onto his back. Between the flying, falling, and excruciating pain; he was feeling a little green around the gills, the taste of bile overwhelming. 

Dean looked up at Garth and angrily said, “What were you thinking? You could have killed us!”

“I didn’t have any matches or a lighter! Neither did you apparently,” Garth as he prodded Dean’s shoulder. Dean hissed in pain and unsuccessfully tried to roll away from Garth. 

“Dude, do you realize you singed your eyebrows off with that dumbass stunt,” Dean asked with a pained smirk. 

Garth ran his hands over his face and frown. “Shucks, my girlfriend is not going to be happy about that,” Garth stated with a frown. 

“Girlfriend? You have a girlfriend,” Dean asked in disbelief. He scrutinized Garth for a second, his goofy features even more absurd than usual with his lack of eyebrows. “Don’t you stay on the road a lot?”

“Yeah, but she understands I have a very dangerous and secret job that takes me cross country from time to time,” Garth explained with a casual toss of his shoulders. “Can’t cage this man for long.”

Dean rolled his eyes, the only body part he had left that didn’t ache like a bitch. “Well, aside from the slow ass salt and burn, my dislocated shoulder, Sam’s concussion, and you’re suddenly lack of eyebrows, I think we did all right,” Dean said as he stared up at the noonday sun. “Hopefully by now the clowns have been cremated. Sam better be the hell back to normal by now. I can’t take much more of this crap.”

“Speaking of which,” Garth said apologetically as he picked up Dean’s numb hand and strongly pinched the webbing between his thumb and index finger. “Can you feel that?”

“Trust me, everything hurts,” Dean said as closed his eyes. 

“So no then,” Garth said with a frown. “Let’s just hope the nerve is pinched and not torn out or permanently damaged. We need to do this now, not later.”

“What a crappy time to be out of booze,” Dean mumbled. “I’ll do it. Give me a minute.”

“You’ll do it--- yourself?” Garth asked, his voice full of empathy. “Man, let me help. You can’t do it yourself.”

“I’ve had to before,” Dean said with a frown. “I know how. And this way I won’t have the desire to punch you afterwards.”

“Tell me what I can do then,” Garth said as he stood up. 

“Help me onto my feet, for one,” Dean said with a grimace. He was already tensing up, just from thinking about what he was going to do. It never got any easier to reset a joint. 

Garth hauled him to his feet and helped him sit on the headstone for support.   
“Dude, you have a handprint shaped bruise on your face,” Garth said with a grimace. “Betty must have really liked you. Other than the arm, how are you doing cause you’re looking a little green. And your kinda swaying a little bit…you dizzy?”

“Garth, I got dropped ten feet by a ghost with no way to catch myself or land well,” Dean sniped. “I’m peachy.”

“Okay,” Garth said with a sigh. “How you wanna do this?”

“You start filling in the grave,” Dean said as he stood unsteadily. “I’ll be back in a minute or two.”

Garth watched as Dean slowly made his way towards the woods that surrounded the cemetery. Dean surveyed the trees, finally selecting a live oak that was fairly straight without any low lying branches. He slowly walked to it, glaring at it like it was truly going to kick his ass. 

He reached out and touched the bark, wondering if maybe he should just ask for Garth’s help. The numbness in his arm was slowly working its way up, the sensation painful; each unsteady step jarred his shoulder and made his breath hitch in his chest. He rested his forehead on the tree, a vine tickling his face. He took a deep breath and steeled himself for the pain. He moved a step back from the tree and tried to make himself relax, he needed to be loose and ready for the bones to slip back into position. 

He took another deep breath and held it, using his good arm to steady himself, and forcefully slammed his left shoulder against the tree. The sensations were intense and assailed him simultaneously; the bones shifting against each other, the muscles and tendons being stretched far past their normal limits, the nerves suddenly righted and sending overwhelming signals of distress and pain to his brain. The pins and needles flew down his arm as the sluggishly moving blood was suddenly pushed through by fully oxygenated blood that his tissues were screaming for. He hadn’t even realized he had yelled out until he felt his lungs burning from being emptied. He fell against the tree, using his good arm to hold fast to it; he felt the rough bark against his face, making his stubble itch even more. 

He fell to his knees as his stomach churned again, the taste of bile unmistakable. The sound of the bones moving---followed by the loud ‘POP’---was still echoing in his head. He didn’t bother to fight his nausea this time. 

Garth found Dean leaning against a large live oak tree, sweat beading on his forehead, his body limp from the multiple assaults the day had brought them. He leaned down in front of Dean and whistled. 

“You look like crap,” Garth said as he surveyed Dean. He could see Dean’s shoulder had been fixed; the earlier scream had clued him in to that. “The grave’s done. What next?”

“We find a liquor store,” Dean said with a grimace. 

“No offense man, but you stink to high heaven,” Garth said as he helped Dean to his feet. “Why not some Ibuprofen?”

“Dude,” Dean said as he gave Garth a look of disbelief. “I’m not even going to dignify that with an explanation.”

“Can you even drive,” Garth asked suddenly. “Can you even feel your fingers yet?”

Dean froze, wavering on his feet, an intensely worried appearing look on his face. He tried to slide his hand in his pocket, the simple movement painful. He bit back a groan as he managed to hook his keys with one very sore finger; he hefted his keys in his hand for a second before slowly holding them out to Garth. 

“I’m serious,” Dean said, his voice full of harsh sincerity. “One scratch and I will end you. And not in a nice way; we’re talking like a full on beat you to death with your own body kind of way. You understand me?”

Garth tried to contain his mirth long enough to give Dean his most reassuring smile, “Yes sir.”

“Shuddup and get the car,” Dean said with a look of sheer disbelief. “And sir? Seriously? You want a smack right now?”


	9. Just Another Shower Ambush

Dean tried to cran around in his seat, wanting to look at Sam in the backseat without giving up his careful observation of Garth in the driver’s seat; he hissed as his aching shoulder sent another torrent of pain through his left side. He was cradling his arm to his chest, he knew he was in for a few rough days. Weeks, if he wasn’t more careful with his arm. 

Garth glanced over at him from his position in the driver’s seat. “You alright man,” he asked Dean as he slowly pulled the Impala back onto the main road, leaving the cemetery behind. 

“I’m fine. Stop looking at me and keep both of your eyes on what you’re doing,” Dean snapped as he motioned to the road with his good arm. “Like I said, you scratch my car and you’re dead.”

Dean hadn’t failed to notice how Garth was relaxed into the seat, his arm dangling out the window, his shades in place. Garth may have looked comfortable driving the Impala, but Dean was far from it. 

“I will be very careful. Does if help to know that I have a perfect driving record? No speeding tickets, no crashes, not even a parking ticket,” Garth said with a confident smile as he adjusted the rearview mirror. 

Dean glared at him. “No, that doesn’t make me feel any better, cause there is nothing going to make me feel any better about you driving my car,” Dean exclaimed. “Are you sure Sam’s okay in the backseat?”

Garth nodded and said, “I checked him. He’s still out cold. How hard did you hit him? It’s been awhile.”

Dean winced at the memory of putting Sam down in such a harsh way, but it was still better than letting Sam kill Garth or putting a bullet into his own brain. He counted the hours and frowned. “Well, he didn’t sleep much last night. And his body has been so high strung; I don’t doubt he needs the rest. But….he was concussed already when I punched him,” Dean said aloud. “Wonder if we should take a look?”

“At what,” Garth asked with a shrug. “He’s in the backseat. He’s breathing. He’s alive. He’s just not conscious. We can’t see what’s going on in that huge head without a trip to the emergency room.”

“Yeah, and we can’t do that,” Dean stated firmly. “Unless we absolutely have to. I’m just worried if we got the right graves. If we did, he should be okay when he wakes up. If we didn’t, then he’s still going to be bat shit crazy.”

“What if we don’t know which one he is until it’s too late,” Garth asked nervously as Dean continued to watch him drive. “We’ve still got few hours until his time is up, but still.”

“That’s my worry,” Dean replied as he rubbed the side of his face, he was itchy and just wanted a shower. “You just drive and let me worry about Sam.” 

“You wanna call Bobby and let him know that we’re done,” Garth asked as he gunned the engine slightly, grinning from ear to ear. 

“I’ll call him from the motel,” Dean said as he clutched the door and braced against the dash. “Watch it man! There’s another car coming,” 

“Dean, I can see the car. It’s in its own lane, and we’re in our own lane. We’re not crashing!” Garth exclaimed. “We’re doing fine. You wanna stop anywhere on the way back?”

Dean sighed and glanced out the window, the houses coming back into view. He gazed at the funky gardens made up of carnival equipment and exotic birds. “Let’s grab some lunch. And a liquor store,” Dean said. 

Garth glanced at him and frowned. 

“Or a pharmacy,” Dean snapped as he let out a defeated sigh. “You’re as bad as Sam.”

Garth just smiled and turned back onto Main Street, quickly pulling into a driveway lined with large oak trees. 

“Garth, why are we stopping at a funeral home,” Dean asked as Garth parked the car and killed then engine.

“Time to pick up the clown’s ashes, they should be done by now,” Garth said as he bound out of the car, the keys swinging in his hand as he headed into the large brick building. 

Dean adjusted the rearview mirror and looked back at Sam. He was still right where he and Garth had tossed him earlier, his head turned to the side, his breathing a steady rhythm. Dean sighed and painfully pulled his phone from his pocket. He rubbed his tired eyes he called Bobby; the phone didn’t ring more than twice before Bobby picked up. 

“You get it done,” Bobby asked. “Sam okay?”

“Yeah, nice afternoon to you too Bobby,” Dean mumbled sarcastically. “We got the salt and burns done.”

“How is Sam,” Bobby asked. 

“Not really sure,” Dean admitted. “He’s out cold. Been that way for a while actually; I’m starting to worry a little.”

“Well what the hell happened,” Bobby exclaimed. “Start at the beginning.”

Dean leaned his tired head against the window and recanted the morning’s events, Bobby interrupting with the occasional question. 

“So, let me get this straight: the salt and burns are done, you punched Sam into unconsciousness when he was already concussed, and you nearly got ripped in half by an old lady ghost and re-dislocated the same shoulder you dislocated a few weeks ago, Garth blew up a gas can, and now he’s driving your car? Jesus! You can pack a lot of bull crap into just one morning!” Bobby exclaimed into the phone. 

“Yeah, well, aside from worrying about Garth surrendering my keys back to me, I’m worried about Sam,” Dean explained. 

“Well, I hate to add more shit onto your shit day, but you remember your ghost sickness, right,” Bobby asked hesitantly. “It dissipates somewhat slowly. It’s not going to just disappear in the amount of time that a ghost burns up. I remember Sam telling me you were still jumpy for a few days after yours officially ended.”

Dean groaned and ran a hand over his face. “What the hell do we do then?”

“Not sure there is anything you can do,” Bobby said, his voice calm yet apologetic. “You just have to let him wake up and hope for some sign of improvement.”

“Alright,” Dean said hesitantly. “Hope we didn’t screw this up.”

“He’ll be alright,” Bobby said with a chuckle. “If you didn’t dent his brain with your brawn.” 

Dean snorted and said, “Thanks for calling Garth in. Not sure I could have gotten this done without his help. Even if he is the weirdest hunter I’ve met.”

Bobby laughed and said, “He might be a bit unusual, but he gets results.”

“Look Bobby, I’ll call you when Sam wakes up and we know anything,” Dean said with a yawn. 

“Sounds like you need some decent sleep. Have Garth keep an eye on Sam, while you try and get some rest,” Bobby stated firmly. “You can’t be vigilant over Sam if you’re nodding off.”

“I’m fine Bobby,” Dean said as he tried to stifle another yawn. 

“Bullshit you’re fine! I’ll call Garth myself,” Bobby said with a chuckle. “Quit being a bull headed idjit.”

“Fine! I’ll ask him to babysit Sam for an hour or two.” Dean argued. “You happy now?”

“As happy as a pig in shit,” Bobby barked into the phone. “Call me back when you know something.”

“Fine,” Dean replied before he hung up and slid his phone back into his pocket. He wrinkled his nose, Garth was right---between the layers of sweat, gasoline, and a hint of vomit; he was stinking up the car. He needed a shower. Aside from the smell, he was getting itchy, most likely ashes and grave dirt, but he couldn’t stop rubbing at his cheek. 

He watched as Garth walked back to the car, two large urns in his arms. He awkwardly passed both to Dean and cranked the engine, that same smile coming back to his face, making Dean’s hackles rise. 

“Garth, quit enjoying driving my car!” Dean snapped. “And why did you buy urns? Why not have them dumped in coffee cans or something? What are we supposed to do with two urns full of clown ashes?”

“We’re dropping them off at the clown museum. They offered them a place in their clown hall of honor, I thought the urns would look nicer than Chock Full ‘O Nuts cans,” Garth explained. “They’ve got lots of old clown memorabilia and stuff. Apparently, that old guy, Conan donated a ton of stuff to them; stocked a huge part of the museum for them with his collection. Heard them talking about it in the funeral home. Guy must be a local legend.”

Dean shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Maybe we should go and check it out,” Dean said. “If there’s anything Conan would be hanging onto, it would probably be there.”

“Dean, we don’t know that Sam is still suffering from ghost sickness,” Garth said as he pulled back onto the highway. “We might have gotten them already in our salt and burn marathon.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Dean mumbled. 

They rode in silence for a few minutes before Garth reached for the radio. Dean caught his wrist just as he touched the knob. 

“You get to drive. You don’t get to pick the music,” Dean stated firmly as he left Garth’s wrist go. 

“Okay, no problem man,” Garth said, still sporting his non-stop smile. 

Garth hummed as he pulled off the main road and rolled to a stop in front of a pharmacy. He slowly drove around the building to the drive up window and gave his best smile to the pharmacist at the window. 

“Picking up for Garth Johnson,” Garth said as he handed over an insurance card. “The prescription was called in about an hour ago.” 

Dean was about to ask Garth what he was doing, but Garth just smiled at him and the pharmacist disappeared from the window, returning a minute later with two white bags. Garth signed for them and handed them to Dean as he pulled away from the building. 

Dean pulled the first bag open. “Ah! Man, you’re a life saver,” Dean exclaimed as he held up a bottle of pain killers. “We are all out in our first aid kit, don’t even have aspirin left. How did you get this, anyway?”

Garth reached over and flipped the white bag over, pointing to the name in the envelope. 

“Dr. Jim Walsh,” Dean read aloud. “You called Jim? When?”

“Back at the cemetery,” Garth explained. “When you were hugging that tree and vomiting your guts out. Said you can call him when you or Sam need anything, he’ll call it in. He said to wait another hour before you take one, since you were dizzy, vomiting, and had that fall. He told me not to let you drive for a few hours too, might have a mild concussion.”

Dean nodded silently and grimaced. He hadn’t talked to Jim in a while; he actually had avoided it at all costs, even two months ago when he had dislocated the same shoulder on a Rawhead hunt. It’s not that he disliked him, but when a total stranger sees you at your lowest inhuman moment, you don’t exchange Christmas cards or compare pickup lines. 

Dean pulled the other white envelope open, wincing as it jarred his shoulder. He dumped the contents into his lap and stared at it. He carefully held it up by the strap and grimaced. 

“You gotta be kidding me,” Dean mumbled. 

Garth laughed and said, “He said you need to have your shoulder in a sling for a few weeks; especially since you dislocated the same shoulder a while back.”

“How the hell does he know that!” Dean exclaimed. 

“I told him,” a low mumble came from the backseat. “And once you dislocate a shoulder, it’s really easy to do it again for a few months afterward. Told you, but you never listen to me.”

Dean twisted painfully around in his seat and could barely see Sam’s pale face, he was awake, finally. 

“You really wake back there Sleeping Sammy, or are you spouting nerdy stuff while your asleep now, too?” Dean asked, wondering how Sam was ‘really’ doing. 

“I’m awake. I’ve been awake for a few minutes. Trying to figure out what hurts worst,” Sam replied. “Did you get her?”

Dean saw Garth start to open his mouth; Dean swatted his arm and glared at him. 

“Um—yeah,” Garth said. “She was a tough old bird, but we finally got her.”

“Good,” Sam said tiredly. “Who are we after next?”

Dean and Garth exchanged a glance and Dean asked, “You still seeing stuff?”

Sam didn’t say anything as he tried to sit up in the backseat, after the second attempt he dropped back onto the seat. “Why am I handcuffed? Why is Garth driving the car?” Sam asked, his voice beginning to sound panicked. “Garth! Dean! Let me out of here, now!”

Garth gunned the engine, heading back for the motel. They needed to get Sam out of sight before they had a very real, very loud Sam panic attack on their hands. 

“Sam, you’re okay,” Dean explained. “We got Betty, she was the old woman you were seeing. Take a look around, she’s gone.”

Sam cracked an eye open and scanned the interior of the car, Dean was right, she was gone. “She’s gone, really, really gone?” Sam asked. 

“Yeah, man, she’s gone,” Dean stated firmly. “We got her. And the two clowns are gone too, salted and burned. 

Sam was silent in the backseat, his breathing the only thing Dean could hear. “Sam, you okay back there,” Dean asked. “I need to know if you’re okay. Ghost sickness takes a little time to fully go away but I don’t want to find out at the last second that we didn’t get them all.”

Sam didn’t answer, the last few minutes of the drive silent as Garth pulled up to the motel. He walked around and opened the backdoor, helping Sam to sit up on the seat. 

“Can you un-handcuff me now?” Sam asked. 

Garth glanced at Dean, who was cradling his shoulder and studying Sam. “You sure you feel alright,” Dean asked sternly. 

Sam rolled his eyes and mumbled, “Whose being a mother-hen now?”

“I’m just worried we’re going to have some repeat performance,” Dean said as he kneeled in front of Sam and held up the key to the cuffs. “You remember what you did?”

Sam sat silently on the edge of the seat, and nodded. 

“Do you remember all of it? What you tried to do to Garth? What you nearly did to yourself?” Dean demanded as he forced Sam’s chin up, making Sam look him in the eye. 

Sam nodded again, jerking his chin out of Dean’s hand; looking down at the ground. 

“So you understand why I’m hesitant to let Garth take the handcuffs off, right,” Dean asked, pressing the issue. The rational side of Sam would get it, but Dean knew Sam would be hurt by it anyhow. Over the years they had both been restrained at some point, occasionally by each other; Sam more than Dean, especially considering his history with demon blood. 

Sam nodded again, remaining silent. 

“I can’t run you down again, Sam. And you can’t really be up for any more head injuries today,” Dean explained. “If you can go for a hour without any kind of freaking out, we’ll take them off. But if you start seeing anything, you have to tell me. We have to figure out if this is over or not. You understand?”

Sam just nodded, his head tilted down, his eyes on his shoes.

“Look at me! Do you understand,” Dean stated firmly, his tone almost harsh. 

“Yes, Dean! I understand, okay,” Sam snapped angrily as he slid out of the Impala, he wavered on his feet slightly. Garth reached out both arms to steady him and waited until Sam mumbled, “I got it.”

“Let’s get inside before anyone sees us,” Dean grumbled as he pulled the room key from his pocket.

They trudged across the parking lot and into the room, Dean immediately dropping into the chair and running a hand over his face. 

“Dean, get some sleep. I can keep an eye on Sam,” Garth explained. 

Dean ignored Garth and asked Sam, “How you wanna do this? You can’t sleep. Let’s get you cleaned up for now. Garth, grab me the first aid kit.”

Sam sat gingerly on the edge of his bed and was silent as Dean gingerly prodded the lump behind his ear. “It’s not bleeding anymore and it’s not to deep,” Dean explained. “Don’t think you need stitches. You’re jaw is definitely bruised, sorry about that. Now let’s get your hands cleaned up again. I’m sure the gauze needs changing after all the excitement in the cemetery.”

Sam leaned forward so Dean could undo the cuffs, bringing his hands in front before Dean locked them tightly again. As Dean leaned towards Sam to unravel the gauze, Sam pulled away and wrinkled his nose. 

“Dude, you reek. Like a ghoul or something equally as nasty,” Sam said, giving Dean a look of disgust. 

“Well, I’ve had a long day, Sammy,” Dean snapped. “And let’s not forget that my last shower was cut short by you ambushing me!”

“Dean, I’ll take care of Sam’s hands and keep an eye on him,” Garth said. “Go get a shower, before you ruin everyone’s appetite for some lunch. Once you’re done, I’ll run out for burgers or something.”

Dean considered it and finally nodded. “I’ll only be a few minutes,” he said as he tried to pull clothes out of his bag one handedly. He sighed and bit back his irritation at his arm, he was tired of holding it to his chest, but it was the less painful position to have it in. 

He gave Sam a stern look as he passed him and walked into the bathroom. After a few minutes of fighting to get his shirt over his head, jarring his shoulder enough to make him bite back a groan, he finally managed to undressed and into the shower. Showering with one good arm was difficult, but over the years he had gotten some practice in and hoped Sam and Garth wouldn’t mind him using the hot water to soothe his shoulder. 

Meanwhile, Garth was almost done re-wrapping Sam’s skinned hands. “They look better already,” Garth said as he began to wind the gauze around his hands. It hadn’t escaped him that Sam had been peculiarly quiet; Garth glanced up at him and noticed Sam glaring at the bathroom door.

“He thinks Dad loved him more than me,” Sam suddenly said. His voice was low and menacing. 

Garth looked up at him in surprise and said, “Dean doesn’t—“

“He does, he always has,” Sam spat, his voice getting slightly louder and his hands beginning to shake. “I’m just the freak, the loser, the son no one ever wanted. He thinks he can just make he follow him around, that I’ll stop being a freak if I do everything he says.”

Garth stood up slowly, concern etched into his face. “Sam, take it easy, man,” Garth said as he stepped towards the bathroom. He needed Dean out here, now. 

Sam suddenly stood, swaying on his feet dizzily as he took a step towards Garth. “Where is the key,” Sam said as he twisted his hands in the steadfast cuffs. 

“You know I can’t give you the key,” Garth said as he stepped in front of the bathroom door. He honestly didn’t know if he was hoping to escape Sam by locking himself in the bathroom with Dean, or trying to protect the already injured hunter who currently about as vulnerable as he could be. 

“Then get out of my way so I can ask Dean for it,” Sam said, his voice cool and deadly although Garth could see his breath coming in short bursts. 

“No,” Garth said as he shook his head. “You’re not okay right now. You need to calm down.”

Garth regretted his words immediately as Sam charged him, Garth’s breath gone as Sam pinned him to the bathroom door for half a second before the door gave way and both Garth and Sam tumbled into the room. 

Dean had been enjoying the hot water on his shoulder, when the door whipped open with a loud bang. 

Before he could figure out what was going on, Sam and Garth were falling into the tub, pinning Dean in the tub underneath the ripped shower curtain. Dean cried out as his arm throbbed in pain as Garth and Sam fought. 

Dean tried to scramble out from underneath his brother, but Sam was thrashing as well, all the while yelling, “I am not less than you! Give me the key, dammit!”

“Dean! Hold on,” Garth yelled from somewhere in the room. “I’ll get him!”

“You had better! Or I’m gonna drowned in here,” Dean tried to yell as the water from the shower pelted against the plastic he was pinned under. Dean could tell that Garth was trying to fight off Sam, but he was in no position to help him. He couldn’t move. 

“Sam, calm down,” Garth said as he tried to get Sam’s attention. “I can help you, you want the key? I’ll give it to you.”

“Garth, don’t you dare,” Dean yelled out. “I will beat your ass if you let him loose.”

“Don’t worry about Dean,” Garth said slowly and persuasively to Sam. “You and I can take care of this. Right, Sam?”

Dean could hear keys jingling and was about to yell at Garth, when the crushing pressure on his arm disappeared; Sam was out of the tub. Before Dean managed to sit up in the tub, he heard another loud thud and then a groan. 

Dean whipped the shower curtain from his head and clamored out of the tub, coughing up tap water as he did. The first thing he was saw was Sam on the floor, apparently unconscious again, his hands now handcuffed to the sink. Garth was standing over Sam, groaning and holding his right hand, his eyes screwed shut in pain.

Dean reached over and turned off the shower, wondering what it would take to get a shower in peace. 

“Garth, what the hell happened,” Dean demanded as he pointed to Sam. 

“Dude, T.M.V.I. ---too much visible information,” Garth said as he threw a towel to Dean. “Think you could maybe be less naked?”

Dean rolled his eyes and wrapped the towel around his waist. “You and the delivery guy,” Dean mumbled. “The list of people who have seen far to much of me just keeps getting bigger and bigger.”

“Now, what happened to make Sam try to make another shower attack,” Dean asked. 

“It’s Conan, I’m sure of it,” Garth said as he flexed his hand, frowning at the pain in his hand. “Does Sam have a metal plate in his head or something? That hurt way worse than I thought it was gonna.”

“He’s a tough one, kind of surprised you managed to take him down,” Dean said as he gave Garth a strangely proud pat on the shoulder. “Always figured you were too scrawny for that kind of thing.”

Garth and Dean moved out of the bathroom and away from Sam. “How you wanna do this,” Garth said. “There’s got to be something at the museum that Conan is hanging onto.”

“I’ll go,” Dean said as he glanced around, looking for his pants. 

“I think I better go,” Garth said. “You still can’t drive!”

“No, he’s trying to kill me,” Dean argued. “So I’ll go.”

“You can’t climb with that arm, or lift anything, or even tie your bootlaces,” Garth called out as he quickly stepped out the door. “I’ll call when I get something.”

He was out the door and into his car before Dean managed to find his own keys.

Dean sighed and grabbed his cell phone; when Garth picked up, Dean barking into the phone, “What did Sam say to you?”

“Stuff,” Garth said vaguely. “I’ll take care of it.”

“What do you mean ‘stuff’? Garth, what did he say,” Dean demanded as he walked back to the bathroom and stared down at Sam. “When he was in the tub, I heard him say ‘I’m not less than you’. What the hell did he mean?”

Garth was silent for a few seconds before he said, “He said you thought John loved you more than him. That he’s a freak and a loser and that you think he’ll be normal if he lets you run his life.”

Dean didn’t react and just said, “Yeah, that sounds like Conan and his relationship with his sister. Call me if you need backup.” Dean snapped his phone shut and tossed it on the bed before grabbing his clothes from the bathroom floor. They were damp but he didn’t care. 

He spent ten minutes getting dressed, his shoulder still tender and a ball of burning nerves. He glanced at the sling that Jim had prescribed for him; he hated slings almost as much as casts. But…no one was watching…and his arm did hurt like a bitch.

After a moderate amount of swearing he finally managed to get his arm situated, held tightly to his chest and was able to feel his muscles begin to relax. He popped a pain killer into his mouth and stood in the bathroom doorway, staring at Sam who was beginning to stir. Dean took a step closer and peeled one of Sam’s eyelids open. His eyes were swimming around in his head, his pupils blown. He uncoordinatedly tried to swat Dean’s hand away, unable to do so with both of his arms still handcuffed to the sink. 

“Sam, you in there man,” Dean asked. He watched as Sam tried to focus on him. Sam groaned and mumbled underneath his breath. “What was that?”

Sam repeated himself, far louder than Dean was expecting, “I said back off Dean. Don’t wanna throw up on your new clown shoes.”

Dean stepped back from Sam, confused and concerned. He walked back to the bed and grabbed his phone, calling Bobby again. 

“Let me guess,” Bobby said as he answered the phone. “It’s not over. Why is it you boys can’t just take a day off once in a while? Ever think about that, just once, I’d like to get some sleep!”

“You and me both Bobby,” Dean mumbled into the phone. “So, Garth has rushed off to the clown museum to hunt down whatever object Conan is hanging onto and I’m stuck babysitting Sam, who is now further concussed and handcuffed to the bathroom sink.”

“Kind of surprised you didn’t go after Conan yourself,” Bobby said. 

“I wanted to, but Garth beat me to the door and I can’t really move my arm that easily,” Dean admitted. “Garth can handle it.”

“Your arm,” Bobby repeated. “You got that thing in a sling yet? I told Sam last time you dislocated it to put it in a sling; you ever going to listen to anybody?”

“Yes, it’s in a sling! You’re as bad as Sam, Jim, and Garth,” Dean muttered into the phone. “Bunch of clucking mother hens.”

“Listen here you idjit, we just want to avoid you having to have that thing surgically fixed,” Bobby explained with a chuckle. “We all know what a bad patient you are and none of us want to experience that again!”

Dean rolled his eyes and went back to staring at Sam. “He’s having hard time waking up,” Dean explained to Bobby. “He’s probably due for a trip to the emergency room, but honestly, I can’t imagine him getting all nuts in a hospital gown. He’ll end up in the psych ward.”

Bobby chuckled and said, “You call me when you know something, alright?”

“Sure thing,” Dean said as he stuffed his phone back in his pocket. He kneeled by Sam and patted his face lightly. 

“Sam! Wake up,” Dean said. 

Sam tried to open his eyes, groaning lightly before mumbling, “I want off the carousel, Dean. Spinning clowns are the worst.”

Dean tried to hide his smile before saying, “Man, wish you could hear yourself right now.”

“Serious Dean,” Sam said. “The clowns are gonna find me. You know that, right?”

“Sam, if I thought for a second that clowns were really going to get you, I’d---“

“You’d what? Kill me first,” Sam suddenly demanded, trying to bring Dean into focus. He reached weakly for Dean, pushing him away.

Dean stood back from Sam; not failing to realize the pendulum of fear and paranoia Sam was experiencing. “Hope Garth is done soon,” Dean said to himself as he glanced at the narrow window in the bathroom. When he saw that the afternoon light was beginning to fade, he felt his own heart skip a beat. 

Sam’s time would be up soon.


	10. Clown Killing Cardiac Rhythm

Garth flinched as his cellphone rang again. He was tempted to not answer it; after all, Dean had already given him the expected phone call about Sam’s rant in the bathroom. When his phone began ringing again, he sighed and answered, “No worries, Dean. I can—“

“Do I sound like Dean to you,” Bobby snapped into the phone. “Are you at the museum yet?”

“About to pull into the parking lot now,” Garth replied, briefly wondering if he would ever get to complete a hunt without at least half a dozen phone calls coming in before he even got to the site. 

“I just spoke with Jax Miles, the carnival manager,” Bobby explained. “She’s the one who called me about the job down there in the first place. I was hoping she might have some ideas about what Conan’s spirit might have attached itself to.”

“She have any good guesses,” Garth asked as he pulled his station wagon to the backside of the museum, parking in the back of the employee parking lot. 

“To many,” Bobby said unhappily. “He worked his way through the carnival, doing a lot of different jobs over the years. He started out helping to taking care of the animals and setting up the carnival. He did that for a few years before he ended up running a few games, ring tossing and knife throwing, stuff like that.”

“Any way we can narrow down the list to something he was really into,” Garth asked as he watched a car pull away from the museum. He glanced around the parking lot; wondering where the security guard might have parked his car. 

“Jax has got her people looking through years’ worth of old photos and advertisements, she’s got your number, she’ll call you if they find anything that might help,” Bobby explained. “I made a few calls to some of Jax’s old employees. One of them claims Conan spent more than two decade as a clown, claims he was good at it, said some nights he wouldn’t even take his clown makeup off after the shows. All I can say is watch your back and use your EMF reader until Jax’s people come through—if they do.”

Garth looked up at the large museum and replied, “Yeah, sure. It’s a clown museum. Can’t be that bad, right?”

“Garth, tell me you don’t have some clown fear like Sam does,” Bobby said with a groan. 

“No! Clowns are nothing. It’s the big shoes,” Garth mumbled into the phone. “Creepy, man!”

Bobby let out a loud chuckle before he could stop himself. “Their shoes,” he asked. “Garth, I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that to me. And don’t go breaking into the museum. Jax’s cousin works as the security guard there; he knows why you’re coming in. He should be at the back door, just knock and he’ll let you in. I promised Jax he’d be fine, so you better either watch his back or tell him to get out until you’re done.”

“Thanks, Bobby,” Garth said as he climbed out of the car and hefted his duffel bag over his shoulder. “I’ll call you when it’s over.”

“You’ve only got a little while to find whatever Conan is hanging onto and finish him off, before Sam’s heart explodes,” Bobby reminded him. “I’d like to say no pressure, but if you don’t get this done in time, Dean’s gonna kill you.”

Garth grimaced and said, “Thanks for that Bobby.”

Garth stuffed his phone back into his pocket as he stepped up to the service entrance door. He glanced around guiltily as he knocked on the door. A minute later, a remarkable short teenager opened the door, his expression leery as he glanced up at Garth. 

“You him,” the teenager asked, his expression distrustful. 

“Unless you’re expecting more than one hunter tonight, I’m your guy,” Garth said as he stepped into the large storage room. “I’m Garth.”

“Danny,” the teenager responded as he flipped on the overhead light. 

Garth let out a groan of frustration as the rooms contents were illuminated, stacks of boxes and crates that nearly reached the ceiling. “Please tell me these aren’t all from Conan’s estate,” he said with a glanced at Danny. 

“Most of them are, but not all of them,” Danny explained as he pointed to a stamp on the sides of the boxes. “These are all from Conan.”

“Great, sounds peachy,” Garth said as he dropped his duffel bag to the floor. “Look man, I get your dream isn’t to be a hunter, but I could really use some back up for this. You wanna help?”

Danny nodded eagerly. “Sure thing,” he replied. “What do I do?”

“First things first, we’re gonna pull all of these boxes down and open them up,” Garth said as he pulled two EMF readers from his bag. “Then we get to use these babies to hone in on whatever our ghost is hanging onto. Should be easy enough.”

Across town, Sam was starting to lose it. He tried once more to pull his arms free from the handcuffs, but the metal held fast. Sam looked up suddenly as a loud noise from the other room startled him. He knew that the ring master was training elephants in the hotel room, but where was Dean? Had he been taken by the clowns? Maybe he was working concessions in the parking lot. It would just be like Dean to leave Sam alone so he could find a pie booth. 

“Dean, are you out there,” Sam whispered, trying to lift his throbbing head from the floor. 

Sam watched as Dean stepped into the doorway of the bathroom and gasped fearfully as Dean slowly slid the clip into his favorite .45 while a playfully malicious grin slowly worked its way across his face. 

“Dean, what are you doing,” Sam asked, his hands beginning to shake from fear. Sam looked frantically around the room, looking for anything he could use to get free and away from Dean. 

“Oh Sammy, I’m just doing my job,” Dean said with a chuckle. 

“What job,” Sam asked, his voice beginning to shake. 

“You know what job Sammy,” Dean said as he tapped the gun against his thigh. “The one, big important job I have to do. You’re weak, Sam. I can’t let more people die because I’m too busy chasing after you all the time. You’re holding me back.”

“Dean, please,” Sam began to beg, his breath hitching in his chest as his heartbeats began to drown out every other sound in the room. “Don’t! I’ll do better! I’ll be a better hunter!”

“No, Sammy, you won’t,” Dean said as he took aim at Sam, his hands steady, no emotion to be seen. “You’ll be dead. And I’ll finally be happy then.”

Back at the museum, Garth and Danny were knee deep in photographs, journals, memorabilia, and carnival themed knick knacks. Garth let out another deep sigh of frustration as he tossed aside the fifth saw dust stuffed toy giraffe. 

“I can’t believe this crap,” Garth said, his usually pleasant façade beginning to crumble under the awareness that Sam Winchester was dying in some crappy motel room bathroom, handcuffed to a sink because Garth couldn’t found a single thing that even made the EMF reader blink. 

“What’s the deal? We’ve opened like every box in here,” Danny said as he kicked a large rubber ball out of his way. “Are the batteries in this thing dead or something?”

“No, the EMF readers are fine,” Garth mumbled as he surveyed the room. “We’re missing something. We have to be. Okay, let’s look at all this crap from the perspective of a….clown, I guess. If you were a clown, what would be missing from this pile?”

Danny and Garth gazed around the gigantic mess they had made. Garth looked down at the pile of old black and white photographs on the floor and froze. Conan’s face smiled up at him from a photograph. 

“Costumes,” Garth said quietly. “His costumes!! We haven’t unpacked a single box of costumes. There have to be more boxes somewhere! Come on!” 

Garth followed Danny out of the storeroom and raced through the hallways. Danny slid to a stop, Garth smacking right into him causing them to both fall to the floor. 

“Sorry man,” Garth said as he tried to untangle himself from Danny. “You okay?”

“Yeah, look,” Danny said as he pointed to a large exhibit in the middle of the room. “They must have set this up before I got here today. Next week’s unveiling is of vintage costumes.”

“They must have opened Conan’s costume boxes already,” Garth said as he pulled his EMF reader from his pocket. “Come on, if we don’t find whatever we need, like right now, we’re going to have to just burn this whole place to the ground.”

Danny’s eyes widened as he pulled his borrowed EMF reader from his pocket. “I’d like to keep my job, thanks,” Danny said.

“Well, if we don’t save Sam, we’re both gonna be dead anyways,” Garth said. “Dean won’t care how much you like this job, when he’s busy burying us alive.”

Danny and Garth took off in different directions, each moving methodically through the exhibit. 

Back at the hotel, Sam was hyperventilating, his breaths short and quick; his heart beating like it was tunneling out of his chest. 

“Don’t do it, Dean,” Sam whispered, a tear sliding across his face as he stared up at his older brother. “Please. I can do better.”

Dean rolled his eyes and kneeled down, his knee pressing against into Sam’s pounding rib cage, making it even harder for Sam to get a decent breath. 

“You wanna know why I haven’t killed you yet,” Dean asked Sam as he took aim at the leering clown standing the doorway. 

Sam jumped against his restraints as the sound of gunfire echoed off the tiles walls, his wrists starting to bruise and bleed from his desperate attempts to free himself. When then gunfire died down he slowly cracked an eye open and peeked up at Dean. 

“Don’t hide from me, Sammy,” Dean cooed as he looked at his gun. “I’ve always been the one there for you, so it makes sense I’d be the one to kill you.”

Sam cried out and tried to throw Dean off of his chest as Dean pressed the end of the hot barrel into Sam’s cheek, leaving behind a red, blistering mark. 

“There, mark of the coward,” Dean said proudly, as he smiled cruelly down at Sam. “Now when they find your body, they’ll know you were a failure. A weak, pathetic little brother that couldn’t pull his own weight.”

Sam forced his eyes closed, his tears running freely down his face, not able to look at Dean anymore. Sam listened as Dean slid the clip out before he said, “Look at that. One left, just enough to finish my job and finally get a good night’s sleep. You know how hard it is to spend your whole life having to be on call to every whim of your pitiful brother?”

A shiver ran through Sam as he felt the still warm metal slide across his chest, coming to rest over his heart. 

“Should I put it here,” Dean asked cruelly. “Let the bullet tear through your heart. Goodness knows you’ve never used it. Think about all the people you couldn’t save cause you were to weak, all the people I couldn’t save because I was too busy carrying my worthless baby brother around. God, you’re pathetic. No wonder Dad said you’re a waste of his time.”

Sam whimpered slightly, his eyes screwed shut as he turned his face away from Dean. 

Dean chuckled menacingly and slid the barrel of the gun to rest against Sam’s temple. 

“Maybe it should go here,” he said with an enlightened tone. “After all, no matter how smart you are, you couldn’t find a way out of being a failure. No book’s gonna teach you that, am I right, Sammy boy?”

Sam felt another hot tear slide down his cheek, a sob rising from his chest. “Please Dean,” he mumbled. 

Sam felt the barrel of the gun begin to move again, settling again over his thundering heart. Sam tried to swallow the lump in his throat, but it turned into a cough that racked his body. As his chest rose and fell from the floor as he tried to find air, he could feel the heaviness of the .45 pressing down onto his chest. 

“Don’t worry, Sammy,” Dean said with a grin. “You won’t feel it for long and when it’s all over, you’ll go to wherever it is failures go, probably hell. Yeah, kid brother, you’re hell bound. And I’m going to be the one who puts you there.”

Sam tasted blood in his mouth as he once more pulled against the handcuffs that held him to the sink. He froze when he heard the cocking of the gun, the once familiar sound that had let him know Dean had his back was now making Sam tremble as a cold sweat broke out across his skin. 

“Goodbye brother,” Dean said as he lined up the barrel with Sam’s evermore pounding heart and with a smile, pulled the trigger. 

Meanwhile, in the bedroom, a mere five feet away, Dean was mid conversation with Bobby, when he heard a sound that made his heart skip a few beats. Without a word to Bobby, Dean dropped his phone and dove for the bathroom door. He stood for a moment and stared, to shocked to move. 

He watched as Sam’s body arched off the floor, his face red and taut with pain, his teeth bared as a loud yell tore from his mouth; the sound replaced by short, pained gasps for air. Dean instantly dropped down next to his brother and awkwardly tried to turn Sam’s face towards him, his shoulder protesting at the movement. 

“Look at me, Sammy! Look at me,” Dean cried out. “Whatever is happening, it’s not real!”

His words had no effect on Sam as another pain filled scream made its way from his throat, this time his head beginning to thrash from one side to another. Dean yanked the sling from his shoulder and hissed as a burning sensation raced down his arm; he carefully placed his hands on either side of Sam’s head and tried to lessen his thrashing. 

“Sam! Stop it,” Dean cried out. “You’re okay, man! You’re going to be okay! Look at me!”

Sam’s eyes opened for a split second before he caught sight of Dean and began to hyperventilate, his breathing beginning to wheeze in his throat as another cough caught in his chest. Sam started to choke, his chest burning painfully. He stared up at Dean, terror etched deeply into his face, his face turning a brilliant shade of purple as his mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water, trying desperately to breathe. 

“Dammit,” Dean spat as he frantically pulled the handcuff key from his pocket. “Hold on Sam, I’ve got you.”

Dean dropped the key twice before managing to free Sam from the sink, immediately rolling him on his side, ignoring the searing pain in his own arm. “Just breathe,” he said as he placed a towel under Sam’s head. With a moment’s hesitancy he ran back to the other room to get his phone. 

“Dean! Dean,” Bobby was yelling through the phone. “What the hell is going on over there?”

Dean once again dropped to his knees, pulling Sam into his arms before answering Bobby, his phone perched precariously on the sink. 

“It’s Sam, he’s having some sort of fit on the floor,” Dean called out as he turned Sam’s face towards him. Dean watched as Sam’s mouth opened and closed, a faint whisper slipping through his lips. Dean leaned down and said, “What did you say, Sammy? Tell me what’s wrong!”

Sam’s breathe tickled Dean’s ear as he whispered, “I’m sorry I wasn’t good enough.”

Dean reeled back in surprise and exclaimed, “Sam, whatever you think is happening, it’s not real. And you have always been good enough! More than good enough—you’re my brother!”

Sam stared up at Dean, his eyes glassy as he slowly dropped one of his hands on his chest, the handcuffs hanging loose as he tapped himself on the chest. “Then why would you shoot me,” Sam whispered painfully as his heart raced on his chest, drumming against his ribcage. “Hurts.”

Dean laid a hand on Sam’s chest and cringed at the rapid pulse. 

Dean grabbed his phone and said, “Jeez, Bobby! I can practically see his heart beating through his chest. Sam is running out of time; what the hell is Garth doing? I’m going to murder that kid!”

“I’ll call him! You want an ambulance,” Bobby yelled through the phone. 

“Just tell Garth to find Conan, before I find him,” Dean yelled as he heard Bobby drop the call. 

Across town, Garth and Danny were merely a few yards from brushing elbows, each slowly walking towards each other, each staring desperately at the EMF reader in their hand. Garth glanced up at the large display, the costumes bright colors making him anything but cheerful. He flinched when his phone suddenly starting ringing in his back pocket. 

“Yeah,” was all he said as he shoved the phone next to his ear, his eyes still desperately watching for the EMF’s lights to blink. 

“What the hell are you doing over there? Sam’s down to the wire,” Bobby exclaimed through the phone. 

“We’re still looking, Bobby,” Garth said anxiously. “And we’ve almost run out of places to look too. We’re just not getting a damn thing!”

“Balls! Nothing from Jax and her people,” Bobby asked impatiently. 

“Not a peep, we’ve been—“

Garth froze as the EMF lit up like a Christmas tree. “Bobby, we got something,” Garth said as he shoved his phone back into his pocket. 

Garth grabbed the velvet rope that separated him from the display and tossed it aside, stepping up onto the platform and staring at the EMF reader as he slowly waved it back and forth. 

The lights flickered once before every bulb flared up and stayed brightly lit as a noise came from ahead, a noise that was eerily familiar. Like a horn, maybe….A definite honk. 

Garth looked up and stared; the mannequin before him was sporting a vintage clown costume, a bright red rubber nose on its face. Garth stepped up to the mannequin and reached for the nose, but just as he felt the rubber beneath his fingers, the mannequin’s head turned towards him. 

From a few steps away, Danny watched as Garth suddenly sailed past him, landing in a heap a few feet away. 

“Danny, you might wanna make a run for it,” Garth called out as he stood from the floor. “We promised Jax we’d keep you from getting hurt.”

“Come on, Garth, you’re obviously going to need help,” Danny said as the animated mannequin lumbered into view. “It’s a freaking, walking mannequin. Look at it!” 

“Alright, trick is we have to salt and burn that costume,” Garth said as he sidled up to Danny, sliding a lighter into his hand.

They watched as the very life-like mannequin slowly moved towards them, another honk eliciting from its red, rubber nose. 

“Dude, it’s honking its nose at us,” Garth whispered loudly. “That’s just wrong, man.”

“Okay, how you want to take it down,” Danny asked as he took a step back. 

“We don’t have much time; I say we rush it,” Garth said as he took off running. 

Danny watched as Garth tackled the mannequin, it falling to pieces as it hit the floor. Garth grabbed the rubber nose as it rolled past, “Gotcha!”

“Toss me my bag,” Garth yelled as he hastily piled up all the pieces of the mannequin and costume. “I need the salt!”

Danny grabbed Garth’s duffel bag and tossed him the salt before digging into the bag and coming up with lighter fluid. Garth’s cellphone began ringing again, causing his heart to sink; wondering if they had been too late. 

As Garth tossed a lighter onto the pile, Danny stepped beside him and said, “Man, we need some celebratory marshmallows for this!”

Garth turned and looked at Danny, his face caught in a look of disbelief. “Let me tell you a little story about how marshmallows caused this whole damn thing,” Garth said with a scoff. “Trust me, I’m never eating them again. Ever.”

Remembering the ringing phone, Garth grabbed his phone and dialed Dean. 

Back at the hotel, Dean continued to ignore the incessantly ringing phone, his shoulder on fire as he continued to compress Sam’s chest in repetition, his head whirling in wildly unhelpful thoughts as his lips breathlessly counted out the compressions, stopping only to force a lung full of air into Sam’s slack mouth. 

“Come on, Sammy,” Dean begged, panting from the exertion. “Just—breathe for me—any second now— Garth’s gonna— come through.”

Dean closed his eyes and focused on the compressions, wondering if he had the correct number of compressions per breath.

‘God they change the numbers constantly’ he thought wildly to himself. ‘What if this is wrong?’

Dean’s arm was trembling, the muscles in his recently dislocated shoulder wilding protesting at the strenuous work. As Dean felt the muscles locking up in protest, Sam suddenly arched off the floor as his starved lungs pulled in air. He looked up at Dean, his eyes still glassy as he continued to cough, lying limply on the tiled bathroom floor. 

Dean slouched against the bathroom wall and slid down until he was sitting on floor, utterly exhausted. He grabbed his phone from the counter as it started ringing again. 

“Garth,” Dean said coarsely, his throat raw from his ragged breathing and panic. 

“We got him,” Garth said when he heard Dean on the other end of the line. “How’s Sam?”

Dean sounded breathless as he panted, “He was gone for about two minutes.”

Garth froze in his tracks, a weight settling on his chest as he asked, “And now?”

“He’s back to breathing on his own, heart going too,” Dean said with a short panicked laugh, the adrenaline rush wearing off fast. “Get your ass back here, bring some booze. I need a drink.”

An hour later, Sam had been moved to the motel bed; having slept through his wrists being cleaned and wrapped, the bruising and scrapes from the handcuffs making Dean and Garth cringe as they worked to clean them. Sam still sleeping off his exhaustion and concussion when Garth and Dean decided to move outside; sitting shoulder to shoulder on the curb outside the room, a bottle of whiskey between them.

“Thanks for your help man,” Dean said as he took another swig from the bottle. “I honestly don’t know what I would have done without your help on this.”

“No problem, Dean. Always ready to help,” Garth said with a chuckle. “Just next time, you can go look for the carnie ghost while I babysit Sam.”

Dean nodded silently as he thought back to performing CPR on his brother, it hadn’t been the first time, probably wouldn’t be the last time; didn’t matter though, each time leaving Dean wondering how much longer their luck could hold out for. He realized Garth was watching him closely, waiting for him to respond. Dean cleared his throat and asked, ““So what was Conan hanging onto?” 

Dean fiddled with the sling strap, which Garth had forced him back into the second he had returned with the booze. 

“Well, we torched the entire mannequin and costume, but I’m pretty damn sure it was the rubber nose,” Garth said as he imitated honking his nose. “That mannequin was freaky as hell, man. It’s the last clown hunt I want to participate in for a while. I think wax museums are off my list too.”

Dean laughed and smiled. “I hear ya,” he replied. “I’m going to owe Sam for this for a long, long time. I can almost bet he’ll be wanting to drive, and picking the music, and choosing the jobs for a while. Course, that’ll be after Bobby gets done kicking my ass to the moon and back.”

Garth toyed with the bottle before setting it back down, not bothering to drink any. “Any chance you’re going to keep your shoulder in that sling for a few weeks,” Garth asked innocently. 

“Heck no,” Dean said, his face looking mortified. “I can’t pick up chics with a sling.”

“You won’t be able to pick up a pen if you don’t wear it though,” Garth warned. “Bobby and Jim have a bet going over it, already expecting you to end up needing surgery at some point, since you’re being such an ass about it. Bobby gives you six months. Jim gives you four.”

Dean shook his head in disbelief. “Can’t get a simple injury without everyone turning into some kind of mother hen,” he said. “I don’t need the sling!”

“Yeah, well I believe you, mostly—that’s why I bet a year,” Garth said with smirk. “You hold off until I win, we’ll split 60/40.”

Dean snorted and shook his head, scratching the side of his face again. 

“Dude, what is that,” Garth asked as he peered at Dean’s cheek. 

“What,” Dean asked, pausing under the weight of Garth’s stare. 

“Looks a lot like poison ivy,” Garth replied with a smirk. 

“I do not have poison ivy,” Dean grumbled, pausing as he caught himself scratching at it again. “Oh man, the tree in the cemetery. There was a vine wrapped around it.”

“Yeah, and then you practically bear hugged it,” Garth said sympathetically. “Nice going.”

“Hey, it’s not like I’m the first person to get poison ivy,” Dean said, defending himself. “I’m not a leper.”

“A sling and poison ivy face,” Garth said with a slow smile. “Looks like Dean Winchester is out of the game for a while, guess I’d better go make my move on the ladies while I can.”

“Yeah, good luck man,” Dean called out as Garth swung his keys and headed for his car. “You get a one day head start, tops.”

“We’ll see,” Garth called out as he cranked his station wagon and threw it in reverse. 

Dean watched as Garth disappeared around corner, not letting himself consider the mountain of ‘what ifs’ surrounding the last few days. All he had to do was keep Sam breathing. That was his job.   
Sam woke hours later, the early hours of the morning making the room dim. He hissed in pain as he tried to move his hands, surprised to find gauze wrapped around his wrist and hands. Sam slowly rolled over on his bed, pausing when he saw Dean fast asleep in the armchair across the room, his face illuminated by the laptop screen, bottle of Jack an arm’s length away. He tried to shake the words that were still ringing in his head from earlier, the look of hatred on Dean’s face, the sound of the .45 discharging from point blank range. 

He watched Dean’s chest rise and fall, his face tense as he slept, his closed eyes moving restlessly under their lids. Sam sank back into his pillows and sighed deeply, trying to sort out what had been real and what had been a fear induced hallucination. He was rubbing his chest before he realized it, the memory of the bullet tearing into his flesh burning in his mind, the phantom pain still close to the surface. He closed his eyes, replaying Dean’s words in his mind; hallucination or not, they had hit him hard. Sam knew that Dean had been shaken by his own hallucinations after he had suffered from ghost sickness, although he had never wanted to discuss them; but Sam wasn’t an idiot, howler monkeys couldn’t have shaken his brother that badly. 

Sam watched as Dean suddenly bolted upright in his chair, instantly awake, his eyes frantically searching the room for Sam; he visibly relaxed when he spotted Sam still in his bed. 

“You okay, man,” Dean asked as he straightened up his chair, kicking himself for falling asleep in the first place. “How’s your head?”

“I’m fine,” Sam mumbled as he tried to feel for the throbbing lump above his temple. 

“Sure you are, you slept four hours and now you think you’re fine,” Dean said as he moved towards Sam. Dean’s heart sank as Sam flinched, his hands coming up defensively; Dean sighed and slowed his movements until he was sitting on the foot of the bed.

“You know what you saw was just a hallucination, right,” Dean asked. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

“I know that—“

“Then what’s with the jumpy ‘I’m going to punch you’ stance,” Dean said, motioning to Sam’s hands, still up. 

Sam forced his hands down and tried to swallow the lump in his throat. “You hated me,” Sam said. “You shot me, and you smiled when you did it—“

“Sam, I wouldn’t—“

“I know! –but you were so real, so angry,” Sam tried to explain. “I’ve failed you, and dad, and—“

“Sam, you’re not a failure,” Dean argued harshly. “I know how those hallucinations work. Trust me, I know how much they can mess with your head….I remember. You just have to remind yourself they’re not real.”

“They are though,” Sam replied softly, willing his eyes to stop watering. “Don’t you understand that? These hallucinations take what we fear most and make us live them out. These hallucinations just bring up what we’re hiding from; they’re not being made from nothing.”

“Go back to sleep, Sammy,” Dean mumbled as he moved to his own bed, not wanting to go down that road with Sam. “You’re probably still concussed.”

Sam listened as Dean climbed into his own bed, the sound of his breathing a subtle lullaby that slowly calmed Sam’s worries and lingering fears.

“Dean,” Sam whispered. 

“Yeah, Sam,” Dean asked across the room. 

“We’re leaving this hideous motel tomorrow, right,” Sam asked as he stared across the room, the light from the window illuminating the clown painting hung over the television. 

Dean chuckled and said, “Sure thing, Sammy.”


	11. Sweet Revenge

Dean watched as Sam lumbered across the parking lot, prescriptions in hand. He slowly slid across the seat, pulling the squeaky door closed behind him. 

“Well,” Dean demanded. 

“I’m fine. Between being knocked out twice, ramming a car, and getting clobbered by a tombstone, I’m fine,” Sam replied. 

“What about the other thing,” Dean asked. 

“What other thing,” Sam asked, confused. 

“You died for two minutes, Sammy,” Dean ground out. “You had ghost sickness. Did you tell them your heart stopped?”

“Not in full detail, no,” Sam argued. “Obviously, I couldn’t. But Jim called and had them run like every test he could on short notice. I’m fine. We can go.”

Dean stared up the looming hospital across the parking lot and nodded slowly. 

“Good,” Dean said as he moved to crank the car.

“Hold up, Dean,” Sam said with a sly smile. “I got a call from Bobby and Jim while I was in waiting for the tests to come back.”

Dean rolled his eyes and asked, “And?” He could only imagine what those two up had thought up and called Sam about. Surely nothing that Dean would like. 

“You can’t drive,” Sam said with a smirk. “So, hand me the keys.”

“What?! No,” Dean spat. “No way!”

“Apparently, Garth talked to Bobby, who called Jim, who called me,” Sam argued, holding his hand out for the keys, a wide smile on his face. “You’re off heavy lifting and driving for at least six weeks.”

Sam watched as Dean gripped the steering wheel tightly, his knuckles turning white in his determination to not give up his position in the driver’s seat. Sam chuckled as he saw a flinch of pain pass over Dean’s face. 

“Hurts, doesn’t it,” Sam asked. “If you can’t even grip the steering wheel hard without flinching in pain, you can’t drive. How did you even drive us here in the first place?”

“Dude, you got the crap beat out of you yesterday, one concussion after the other,” Dean said. “Did you really think I was going to let you drive my car?”

“Well, I have a clean bill of health,” Sam retorted. “Unlike someone else around here. Come on, give me the keys.”

Dean glared at Sam and said, “Is this your final revenge? You started a prank war and lost, and now you want revenge? Is that it?”

“No! But now that you mention it,” Sam smirked as he slid back out of the car and walked around to the driver’s side door. He yanked it open with a loud creak and pulled the sling from his back pocket. “Suit up. Looks like I’ll be chauffeuring you around for a while, get used to it.”

Dean angrily climbed out of the car and snatched the sling from Sam’s hand, furiously glancing around the parking lot. “Can you not advertise to the whole world that I’m about to be humiliated and forced into wearing a sling,” Dean hissed as he walked around to the passenger side door and climbed in. 

Sam burst out laughing and cranked the engine. “Well, if I want to win the bet, you’ve gotta keep that shoulder together for at least another nine months. So, yeah, for that kind of money, I’ll be keeping your keys for a while.” 

Dean glared at Sam as he tightened the sling strap and said, “This has revenge written all over it. I’m calling Bobby.”

Sam smiled deviously and said, “Where do you think I got the idea?”

“Bitch,” Dean snapped as he cranked the stereo. 

“Jerk,” Sam yelled over the music as he gunned the engine and pulled the car back onto the road. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, please review. I appreciate it!


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